


The Angel

by thisisapaige



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blood and Violence, Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Friends to Lovers, Healer Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal/Mortal Romance, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Knight Dean Winchester, M/M, Mentions of Dean Winchester/Others - Freeform, POV Third Person Omniscient, PTSD-like symptoms, Past Balthazar/Castiel (Supernatural), Scholar Sam Winchester, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Temporary Character Death, War, mentor/mentee relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 155,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26216962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisapaige/pseuds/thisisapaige
Summary: They called him the Angel. Castiel never wanted to be a hero. He never asked to be a legend. He never considered himself a saviour. However, in his efforts to make up for his past after leaving Heaven, he became all three.They called them heroes. Growing up in the idyllic village of Lawrence, Dean dreamed of becoming a knight. In his nineteenth year, Dean journeyed to the Capital to earn his fortune. Sam, with his prized book of herbal knowledge clutched against his chest, travelled alongside Dean to become a man of his own. The Winchesters' drive and ambition lead them to the castle and into history as prominent figures in the Long War.Reality proved to be far more difficult than dreams.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 339
Kudos: 211





	1. The Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my friends! I am so jazzed to be here! I've been working on this fic for a very long time. I decided to try my hand at making a header. Not bad for my first time using a phone drawing app and splicing things together in MS paint, eh?
> 
>  **Please Note!** Dean meets Cas for the first time (and only once) when he's fourteen. He gets a bit of a crush. Cas is a bajillion years old at that time. He goes 'huh, what a weirdo' and goes on with his existence. Cas won't develop any feelings until Dean is of age. However, I think this fact could bother some people so, fair warning if you chose to go on.
> 
> [I'm on Tumblr now!](https://thisisapaige.tumblr.com/) If you need a friend to scream about the end of the show with, I am that friend! Please say hi! I'd love to hear from you.

**Part One  
**

They called him the Angel.

They said it softly, reverently, with wonder in their eyes and awe in their voice. They spoke of him in muddy street corners, in the deep dark before dawn, and in times when hope was short. He was a legend, a symbol of the common people, a story to tell children during the Long War. The Angel, they said, would save them all. 

Dean did not know any of this. To Dean, he looked like any other guy.

Dean was fourteen, his soul already too old for his body. He lost his mother young, yet another of the many casualties of the War. His father joined the king’s army years ago to fight back against those who killed his wife. Dean had not heard from him since. The village of Lawrence took care of Dean, of course, as they had always looked after their own, and Dean took care of his brother, Sam. Dean never liked feeling as if he were a charity case and insisted on work. That was why, at his young age, he bustled around Harvelle’s Tavern serving drinks and cleaning tables. In exchange, Ellen made sure the Winchester boys had enough to eat and a roof over their heads. Dean always worked hard for Ellen and he did not know where he would be without her.

Harvelle’s was empty the night Dean met the Angel. He wiped every one of the tables so many times that night the old wood shone. Dean was preparing to ask Ellen if he could close up shop, and he never asked to finish a shift early, when the Angel walked in.

When the people spoke of him, they painted him as a larger than life figure in shining armour with a jewelled, gleaming sword at his hip. The man who walked into Harvelle’s Tavern was tall but in a normal, human way. He did not wear shining armour but a leather jerkin, britches, and well-worn leather boots. The sword on his hip did not gleam and no jewels glittered through the cloth wrapped around it. He walked in, like any other guy, and took a seat at the bar.

Dean nearly tripped over himself at the chance to finally do something, to have someone to serve. Hours ago, Ellen had retired to her room upstairs, with explicit instructions to find her if the establishment started filling up.

One man did not a full tavern make, so Dean walked behind the bar and, with his most charming smile-- the one which worked on men and women alike even before he learned it did-- he said, “Welcome! What can I get you?”

The man looked up and Dean felt something, a similar something to what happened when he saw Jo, Ellen’s daughter, dressed up for the annual spring dance. It was a tingle, warm and hot, that wanted things Dean did not have a name for, did not know how to fulfill. He wanted to find out and he would, someday soon in his neighbour's barn, but that night he did not know what to do. That night, all the heat did was darken his cheeks and cause him to stumble.

The man’s eyes were a brilliant shade of blue, dark stubble dusted his cheeks, and his lips were full and dry. Dean blinked and fought the absurd urge to clasp the man on the arm to see if the muscle was as hard and strong as his body suggested. Dean blinked again and the urge did not go away, nor did it lessen. In fact, Dean became fascinated by the square shape of the man’s shoulders and his long fingers resting on the bartop. The man cleared his throat and Dean stopped staring long enough to catch the glimmer of amusement in the man’s eyes. After getting caught in his blatant staring, Dean blushed to the tips of his ears.

“Sorry! I--I--” Dean was going to offer the beer or the slightly more expensive but basically the same beer. Ellen insisted on having two options-- she owned the only tavern this far west to offer two choices-- though Dean never saw someone take the expensive one. He was going to do that. The thought was in his head. Instead, what came out was a fascinated, “Who _are_ you?” 

The man narrowed those damn blue, blue eyes and tilted his head. He stared at Dean for a heart-racing beat of silence, then said, “My name is Castiel.”

“Castiel,” Dean repeated, his young voice sounding weak and feeble in comparison to the man’s deep rumble. “Have I heard that before?”

“Unlikely,” Castiel said. The corner of his mouth turned upward. “Who are you?”

“Oh! I’m-- I’m Dean.”

“Dean,” Castiel repeated. The name sounded wonderful in that voice. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, his eyes drifting down Castiel’s face, to his lips, to that hollow space on his neck. Why would he even care about that?

“Dean.” The sound of his name demanded his attention. “Perhaps you should offer me a beer?”

“Shit!” Dean grabbed a mug and filled it, slamming it down in front of Castiel with such force that the foam sloshed over the sides. “Shit! Sorry, sorry.”

Castiel chucked and Dean scrambled to find the nearest rag. He cleaned the spill. When he looked up, he saw sparkling blue eyes, clear amusement dancing across them. 

“Maybe I should pay?” Castiel asked, a teasing tone in his voice.

If Dean managed to blush any deeper, he would be the same colour as the tomatoes from the Henriksen’s farm. “Wow. I am really bad at this.”

“A little,” Castiel said. He dug into a pouch on his belt, producing two coins. He slid them across the bar top. “This should suffice.”

Dean had never seen such clear silver shine on a coin before. Most of the villagers only had a few coppers to rub together. More often than not, Ellen accepted favours, food, and items in exchange for beer. Dean knew that those two coins were likely worth more than the building they sat in.

“This-- this is too much! I can’t--”

Castiel picked the coins up off the bar and placed them directly into Dean’s palm. He pushed down Dean’s fingers and the coins disappeared from view. Castiel’s hands were calloused and rough, but his touch was soft. 

“I have more,” Castiel said, “and you have much more use for it than me.”

That was the end of that. Castiel sipped from his mug and would not hear any protests from Dean. Dean slipped the coins into his pocket without looking at them. They felt heavy and warm.

The empty mug thumped against the bartop. Castiel leaned over, his narrowed eyes giving Dean an intense stare.

“You seem young.” Castiel rested his chin in his hand. “How old are you?”

Dean puffed out his chest-- what little he had. “I’ll be fifteen in a few months.” Seven of them, in fact. Dean did not mention that part.

“Ah, of course.” Castiel’s stupid blue eyes sparkled. “Practically an old man already.”

Dean knew he pouted. He could not help it. “Alright, big guy.” Dean crossed his arms. “How old are _you_?”

It was not a difficult question or, at least, Dean did not think it was. He was taught not to ask a lady her age. Maybe he was not supposed to ask men, either.

Castiel’s attention drifted away. He ran his finger around the rim of his empty mug. “That is a question not even the scholars have answered.” That statement made sense to someone, but it sure did not to Dean. Castiel blinked and he was fully present again, the amusement back in his eyes. “Older than you, at least.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Just you wait. In a few years I’ll be bigger and older and a knight.”

“A knight?”

“Yeah. I’ll be a knight. I’ll find my dad. I’ll avenge mom and make a better word for Sammy.” Dean jutted out his chin, stubborn. “Just you wait, Cas.”

Dean was still young, even if he would not admit it. That was why he did not understand why the amusement left Castiel’s eyes. That was why he did not understand why the lines on Castiel’s face deepened. That was why he did not understand why Castiel looked away. Dean was still young. While he had come closer than most young boys would have, due to his harsh beginnings, he still had yet to learn the feeling of profound sorrow. It would be a long time until he understood the pain in Castiel’s eyes.

“For your sake,” Castiel said, his words soft, “I hope not.”

Dean clenched his jaw, believing Castiel to be yet another so-called adult who thought Dean was too young to make this decision. Dean wondered how many of those “adults” watched their mothers burn, had been abandoned by their father, and had to raise their brother as if he were a child of their own. If the life of an adult was measured in experience, as he was so often told, then Dean was more of an adult than most.

“Just you wait, Cas,” Dean repeated. 

Castiel nodded. He pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. He slid his mug toward Dean.

“I’d like another,” Castiel said. Dean fulfilled his request, his jaw shut tight, and refused any more payment. Castiel sipped the beer. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Oh. I suppose for that, as well.”

Dean stared at Castiel but the man only looked down at his beer. “Then for what?”

Dean’s anger faded away as quickly as it appeared. He saw the sad smile on Castiel’s lips and felt responsible. He was not, but he did not know that.

“For calling me Cas,” Castiel said. He took another drink, the mug half empty when he set it down. “I haven’t been called that for a very long time.”

Dean did not understand but, when Castiel looked into Dean’s eyes with a real smile on his face this time, Dean learned he loved it when he made people smile.

“Anytime, Cas.”

⁂

They called him the Angel.

Castiel never asked for it, never wanted it. The humans had come up with it on their own. Castiel tried to temper it, tried to keep it from spreading, but it was a wasted effort. Castiel was the Angel now, to most everyone he met. He was a symbol, a legend, a beacon of hope to the common people. The Angel, they said, would save them all. Castiel had no interest in being a saviour. He only wanted to help people, to make up for his past.

Most humans were aware of the existence of the immortal Celestials, though few had met one. That was because, when a Celestial left their island in the sky for too long, they began to feel the pain of mortality. Castiel would know. He left Heaven almost ten years ago and every day he felt a little older, a little more tired. 

Ten years. A drop in the ocean compared to his years in service to the Celestial throne. Castiel did not know how old he was measured in years. How could one measure the life of the stars or the expanse of the universe? He spent countless years following the will of God-- the All-Father-- waging endless wars and leading Heaven’s armies to countless victories. 

The humans called it The Long War. They lived their lives in fear of the Creatures of the Night. They did not know that those ghosts, ghouls, zombies, and vampires were the creation of Heaven, a way for the Celestials to keep the humans in check. Castiel once believed in the mission; he believed it was a mercy to keep the humans in line. It was a mercy to give them a fear of these Creatures, those in the army were told, because that way their short lives would mean something.

Castiel believed the lie until he watched as a woman burned in her home, pushing her children out of the fire with no regard for herself. Her love for her family was stronger than her fear. Castiel did not set the fire, but it happened under his command. The one who set it wanted to hurt people, wanted to defy the Celestials. Castiel should have known about the snake in his ranks. The fire was his fault. So many humans deaths were his fault. 

The Celestials did not keep the humans in line out of mercy. It was fear. The very mortality the Celestials feared was the human's greatest strength. He understood that when he saw the steel in the mother’s eyes as she burned.

Though he knew his debts would never be paid, Castiel wandered the Realm and traveled from town to town, striking down the Creatures of the Night with his gleaming sword. It was the one thing he kept from Heaven. It was the sword he once wielded as the commander of the Celestial army. It was the sword that had taken many human lives, directly or indirectly. Now, he used it to save them. 

His efforts were noticed. Word of mouth moved faster than his feet and the townspeople whispered upon his arrival. They showered him with gifts of food and money, none of which he ever wanted. The human king took note and brought Castiel to the Capital. The king gave him golden armour with silver wings emblazoned across the back. Castiel never wore it. The king gave him his own wing of the castle, his own staff, his choice of potential suitors. Castiel used little of it. Castiel did not want, need, or deserve payment for his deeds and Castiel would not be bought out by an unseen king. When Castiel finally met him in person, the human lounging on the Throne of Gold, Castiel told him he would work _with_ him but not _for_ him. Castiel did not bow. He did not kneel. He would not kneel for anyone again.

The audience for their meeting was small and private, but his words spread far and wide. His legend grew. His refusal to kneel solidified him as the saviour of the common people.

They called him the Angel. 

They never learned his name.


	2. In the Beginning

The fire of Dean's fourth year was a great tragedy, spoken about by the elders in hushed tones and wet eyes, but it brought the village of Lawrence closer together than any other. The Winchester brothers lost much in the attack by the demons-- their home, their mother, and, not long after, their father-- but they gained a community, a peaceful place to grow into men. 

Ever since that fire, Lawrence had been spared by any further effects of the Long War. It was almost as if the village had its own guardian spirit, sparing the people from any more harm. At least, that was what the village elder Kurbrick claimed but he was always a strange one. No one paid him any mind. Too bad. He was half right.

The peace made Dean restless. He would learn to appreciate it later in life but, as he approached his nineteenth year, his heart craved action, demanded travel, and longed for more. Wiping tables at Harvelle's Tavern and serving drinks to the same three drunks each night was no longer enough. While he never took Ellen's hospitality for granted, it was time for him to find his own fortune and provide his own roof for him and his brother. He no longer wanted to be the town's charity case.

Once a year, every year, the Capital called for young men, women, and those in between from all across the Realm. The army wanted and needed the best and brightest. The most powerful and promising recruits could work their way up the ranks to earn a knighthood and nobility. All they had to do was survive their first years as a footsoldier in the Long War.

Dean intended to be one of those recruits. He packed up everything he owned-- everything he deemed important-- into one bag. Dean did not own many things. He brought food for the journey into town, a change of clothes, his mother’s ring, his father’s sword, and, of course, Sam. As he walked out of Lawrence, unaware it was the last time he would see home for a very long while, two silver coins jingled in his pocket.

Sam was fifteen and already more restless than Dean. Four years ago, at the spring festival when the village was filled with people from all walks of life, Sam met a woman. Her name was Ruby-- dark of hair and darker of eye-- and she had given Sam a book. Sam spent years painstakingly pouring over it, the only one of its kind in the village, trying to find the meaning behind the symbols splashing across the pages in black ink. Not many people could read in the village and none of them well, but Sam went to them all to parse out the meaning in that book. The villagers shook their heads, a smile on their lips when they spoke of his intelligence, saying he was destined for great things. 

Ruby had told him the same thing. Promising to be there when Sam was ready, she invited him to the Capital to find out the secrets hidden in that book and beyond. Sam clutched it to his chest as he followed Dean out of Lawrence, intending to accept her invitation. He needed more knowledge. He found all he could in the village. He needed to understand why Ruby’s smirk and the dark glimmer in her eyes intrigued him so. He never spoke a word about her to Dean, not once. Sam’s claim that he won the book in one of the carnival games raised Dean’s eyebrows, but he never questioned Sam about it again. If anything, Dean was Sam’s biggest supporter in his pursuit of knowledge. 

Ruby had done her job well, not that the other Demons would admit it. They hated her, hated her methods but, ply a Demon with enough drink a thousand years later and he may admit that, out of all of them, Ruby was the one with a plan that went right.

The journey to the Capital on foot took three days, but Sam and Dean were up to the task. The road out of Lawrence was well worn and safe, an important part of the trade route. It was their first time outside their village for more than a day and, armed with knowledge and gifts from the villagers, Sam and Dean found it easy. It was the only time their journey would be easy.

Perhaps, once upon a time, the Capital had a name. No one remembered it, not even someone as old as Castiel, so everyone called it the Capital. It was the central trade hub of the Realm and the home of the king. The Throne of Gold sat in the castle. On the day the Winchester brothers arrived, the city-- alive with the bustle of young recruits looking to make their fortune, the shouts of merchants selling wares neither brother could have ever dreamed of, and the footsteps of citizens who bustled from task to task-- looked to be a glittering jewel compared to the drab village of their birth. As they were welcomed through the gate, Dean set eyes upon the castle and knew one day he would stand before the Throne of Gold and stare into the eyes of the king.

Unfortunately, he was right. 

⁂

Recruits, they called them. Meat, more like it. 

This day, of all days, was the absolute worst. Castiel almost skipped it. He did not want to look into the eyes of so many hopeful souls and know, in a year’s time, more than half of them would be dead. He went anyway. If one had to lead an army, one should know his flock. Castiel learned that lesson long ago.

No one knew there were Demons in the Celestial ranks. No one, not the All-Father nor the one who spoke for Him on the throne, had known. Still, Castiel was responsible for the Demon’s actions. He was responsible for the fire. He was responsible for the deaths. 

The Demons lived in the shadows of Heaven. They were like the Celestials, immortal and fearful of humans, but they were violent, ruthless, and cunning. They were denied the light of Heaven and they hated the Celestials for it. Beings of chaos, they cared little for the Long War. Their methods were brash, uncoordinated, and only resulted in instant gratification.

At least, that was what the Celestials claimed. Castiel was not so sure.

Castiel walked the streets of the bustling Capital, his sword wrapped to hide its true nature. Not a single person gave him a second glance, not even the children partaking in a make-believe story about the Angel. Castiel preferred it that way. No one knew what he looked like, as he refused to have his portrait painted-- not by any lack of trying by the king-- and he only wore his wing insignia under great protest. As long as he kept his distinctive sword wrapped, no one would know that the Angel walked among them. Young, bright-eyed recruits met him at every turn through the Capital’s cobblestone streets and not a single one looked his way.

He reached the training grounds amid a group of recruits. Each one tilted their head back to view the towering castle. 

“Alright, you win, Aaron,” a woman with dark hair said, “that’s definitely bigger than the one in the foothills.”

“Told you,” the man known as Aaron said. “The Capital is the greatest city in the Realm.”

“You’re only saying that because your grandfather has a title here.”

Aaron clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “My grandfather is stark raving mad so I’ll take what I can get. Which, by the way, is better than owning a tiny house on a hill, Pamela.” 

“Oh gosh. There’s no need to fight.” A new voice, belonging to a small and slight man with a large grin, joined the other two. “Once we’re all in the army there’ll be no need for titles. I ain’t got one and we’ll still be on the same level. So let’s all be friends!”

The other two rolled their eyes and headed towards the knights herding the recruits to the centre of the field. Castiel was about to break off from the group to continue to his destination but the small man turned around, blocking the path. His eyes were kind.

“Hey! I’m Garth. Nice to meet ya!” Castiel glanced to either side of him, but the herd had already moved on. Garth seemed unaffected by Castiel’s hesitation. “What’s your name, friend?”

“Um.” Castiel blinked, watching as the rest of the group moved further and further away. He settled on an answer. “Cas.”

“Cas? Now that’s a funny name. Where are you from, Cas?”

Garth’s small stature made Castiel wonder if he could even hold up a sword. He looked as if a stiff breeze could knock him over. Was the crown accepting children now? Garth’s smile never wavered as he waited for an answer and Castiel realized he was not going to move until he received one.

“Far away,” Castiel said.

“Really? I’m not. From a farm just a day’s walk from here. Ma and Pa got too many mouths to feed as it is, and with last winter being so long, well…” Garth shrugged. “Time to be a man, you know?” No, Castiel did not know, but Garth became distracted from the lack of noise. He glanced behind him, noticing the absence of his peers. “Oh, no! We better get going. Hope to see you around, Cas!”

Garth ran fast. He was quick at least. That could be useful for an army: a small body able to slip into places unnoticed. Castiel shook his head and headed in the other direction. Of course, such a sunny disposition was in direct opposition to that kind of work. 

The Captain’s office lay under the longest shadow from the castle. Castiel felt that appropriate. He stood before the door, hand on the handle. He took a breath. Then another. He knocked.

“What?” came the response, befitting of the man who sat in the chair, loud and angry at being interrupted.

“It’s me,” Castiel said. 

He heard the sound of something falling, something glass, and a deep heartfelt curse from the Captain. A long, silent, pause passed before the door swung open.

“Was starting to wonder if you were going to show up.” 

Castiel glimpsed a broken liquor bottle on the floor before the Captain stepped outside and shut the door to his office. “It seems I’m not the only one dreading this exercise, Captain Singer.”

Captain Singer squinted in the bright sunlight. “Yeah, well, I get older. They don’t.” 

“I understand.”

The Captain gave Castiel a careful glance, his jaw clenched. “I suppose you would.” He walked away from the door, his back straight as a lance. “Guess it’s time we start the meat grinder.”

Captain Robert Singer-- Bobby to his friends-- was one of the few people who spoke to Castiel as a peer. He was born a commoner to an alcoholic father and a helpless mother. He joined the army at a young age in order to escape his birth family, in the very same way as the young recruits, and worked his way up the ranks through hard work and military prowess. Captain Singer, by all appearances, was the model knight, the perfect impression for the new arrivals. In many ways, the Captain was a legend himself on the battlefield, with countless commendations from the king-- late and current-- himself. He believed in the king for years and fought hard to end the Long War, all the way up to the day his wife died in a raid on the city. After that, Bobby had a hard time seeing the point of it all. After that, he had no time for legends. They were all just people, each with a tragedy of their own.

Castiel followed the Captain's path to the temporary stage in the training grounds, set so the castle loomed behind it. Gold banners representing the crown waved from the castle walls, large and imposing. It was all carefully designed to give the appearance of grandeur and might. After all, the Capital was the greatest city in the Realm and needed to show it. One would not want to die for a nation without wealth, of course.

Captain Singer’s speech, the same one for the past few years, was well performed as always. It was about righteousness, justice, glory, and honour, and it always made the young faces looking up at him glow with wonder. Castiel stood at the back of the proceedings, half-hidden in the shadow of the knights lined across the stage, and noticed how, each year, the Captain’s speech grew a little more weary, a little less sincere.

After the speech, the recruits were divided among the knights for assessment. The Captain and Castiel walked through the training grounds and observed each group. Some individuals were not meant for this life, their hands stilted and awkward when they held a sword for the first time. Others showed natural talent, their bodies moving with grace. Even more showed great aptitude, most of them from noble families, afforded the privilege of proper training. 

“That Pamela,” Captain Singer said as they moved on to the next group. “What do you think?”

“She has something to prove,” Castiel said, “and the drive to do so. She has leadership potential.”

“Agreed.” The captain made a note in his book. “Alright, so next is…”

As they approached the next group, Castiel spotted a man on the field who overwhelmed him with a sense of familiarity. The Captain spoke to the knight in charge of this particular group but Castiel heard none of it, watching as the familiar recruit danced with a sword in his hand, his movements natural and skilled. Castiel did not know many people, so it was strange for him to look at this one and not know his name.

The Captain walked into the crowd and Castiel followed after a short delay. They moved closer to that recruit.

“Walker says that there are a few people of note so--” Captain Singer looked up from his book, finally noticing Castiel’s distraction. “Everything alright there, sir?”

Sir. The Captain called him that in formal settings, where someone else could hear them. Most other times it was idjit. Castiel appreciated it. Castiel never took a title. He barely tolerated being called ‘sir.’ 

Castiel cleared his throat. “I'm fine.” 

Of course, at that very moment, the recruit turned around. Castiel stared and could not place him. It was understandable, really, that Castiel could not recognize Dean. They met once, years ago, and Dean was not the youth of his memories. Dean had grown into a man, his shoulders broad and his arms muscled from years of training with his father’s sword. Dean, on the other hand, recognized Castiel right away. It was hard to forget his first real crush. Not that Dean would admit that was the reason.

In a breach of protocol, Dean broke away from his group, a lopsided grin on his face. He ignored Captain Singer’s expression of disbelief as he stopped before Castiel, sheathing his sword on his hip.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said. “Told you I’d get bigger.”

Castiel studied the man’s light brown hair and the freckles dusted across his nose. His eyes-- bright green and hopeful-- were filled with the confidence of his youth. Castiel locked gazes with Dean, and all the pieces started to fall into place. Castiel needed to reply, but he was unsure of what to say.

The Captain saved him. “Cas?” His eyebrows lowered. “Who’s Cas?”

“It’s my name,” Castiel replied. “Castiel, in full.”

“Oh,” Captain Singer faced Castiel, his hand stroking his beard. “I-- I didn’t know that.”

“You never asked.”

The Captain and Dean opened their mouths at the same time, but whatever they were to say was interrupted by fanfare. Everyone in the training ground stopped and faced the sound. The fanfare crescendoed and, at the loudest note, the castle gates opened. Two troubadours walked through, both playing horns, and a kingly procession followed them. As soon as the people in the training grounds saw the banner and the horse, everyone dropped to their knees. Everyone except Castiel.

Behind closed doors and when one was certain of their company, young King Adam was known as the Bastard King. For almost a decade, Queen Kate and the late king had struggled to produce an heir. When the queen had finally fallen with child, there were many whispers among the nobility. The queen, a commoner by birth but a noble by her father’s deeds, had been hounded by rumours since the day she was married. When she died in Adam’s ninth year, she was found behind a tavern in the commons. The rumour was that she had gone to meet her lover and met her fate instead. The rumour was her lover was the disgraced knight-- no one would speak his name as he had long since been stricken from the record-- once appointed to the court. 

Adam, thankfully, looked like his mother and not his father, so he was able to ascend to the throne amid whispered rumours rather than revolution. He was young and nowhere near ready to rule. The crown sat heavy on his head. The Bastard King was known for anger and arrogance but, the truth was, he was scared. Even he believed the rumours but he refused to sully the memory of his beloved mother, Queen Kate.

The procession continued through the training grounds and the king, in the difficult stages of his teenage growth, struggled to stay aside his white steed. Even after four years on the throne, the boy still felt the need to put on an ostentatious display. More and more horses poured out of the castle, each one bearing gold banners and intricate saddles, and Castiel knew that the stables were left empty.

The troubadours must have been near out of breath with how slow the procession moved, forced to play the same shrill notes over and over again as they marched. The recruits watched the display. All this ceremony was for them, of course, to reassure them that they would fight for a great nation. King Adam glared when he saw Castiel. As the procession passed by, Castiel felt the king's anger at the standing Angel, refusing to wear the armour the servants left in his room.

By the time the last horse slipped back through the castle gate, the sun hung low in the sky. Everyone rose to their feet and went right back to what they were doing before, but Castiel did not miss the many glances pointed his way. 

Captain Singer groaned as he stood. “Getting too old for this.” He turned to Castiel. “Seems the king still has it out for you, sir.”

Castiel scowled at the castle gates, his back to the Captain. A whisper ran among the recruits, starting as a single voice until it ran through the entire training grounds. Dean stood close to him, glancing around, noticing the whispers of his peers. Castiel caught more than one person in the group staring at him, their eyes darting away when he looked at them. 

“What? What is--” Dean’s question was not directed to anyone. When the whispers grew louder, he stopped to hear the answer.

“Sorry, sir,” Captain Singer said. “I think they figured out who you are.”

The whisper became a rumble, one word on everyone’s lips. Castiel dropped his gaze. 

_Angel._

⁂

Castiel’s eyes were still stupidly blue. They looked sadder than Dean remembered, especially when the recruits, one by one, turned to gape at Castiel. The recruits mumbled and moved closer and closer to him. Castiel hung his head and closed his eyes.

They called him the Angel.

Dean saw the shadow pass over Castiel’s face. Dean saw the clenched fist at Castiel’s side. Dean saw the way Castiel pursed his lips. Dean saw all of it, but the rest of the recruits did not. 

The recruits saw the Angel stand tall, his hands at his sides. The recruits saw the Angel rip away the cloth wrapped around his sword. The recruits saw the jewels on the Angel’s sword glimmer in the sunlight. 

The recruits dropped to their knees, just as they had done for the king. Dean did not. The Captain spared Castiel a sympathetic look.

“What? No. No! Don’t--” Castiel spun in a circle, his palms out and open, lifting his hands in an attempt to bring people to their feet. “Stand.”

The recruits did not listen. The Captain exchanged glances with Castiel then went to work mobilizing the knights. Castiel pushed his way to the front, his steps sure and purposeful. Dean followed as far as he could, trying to lift people to their feet along the way. Eventually, he was forced to stop, the throng of bodies refusing to move for him as they did for Castiel.

Castiel reached the front of the crowd, where the stage was set, but he did not step onto it. He turned to face the recruits, some standing while others kneeled, all of them speaking out in confusion. Castiel scanned the faces, watched the chaos his title created, and took a deep breath. 

“Enough!” Castiel bellowed. Dean swore he felt lightening. The recruits instantly fell into silence, each person giving Castiel their rapt attention. “Stand. All of you.” Castiel waited until every last person was on their feet, hand on the hilt of his sword. Dean shifted his position to see Castiel through the bodies in front of him. “If we are to fight side by side then you should not kneel to me, not kneel to anyone.” Castiel paced back and forth as he spoke. “We are equals. One day, perhaps, I will do something worthy of your admiration.” He stopped and looked over the crowd. “Far more likely, _you_ will do something worthy of _my_ admiration. You are the future of humanity. You are the protectors. You are what keeps hope alive.” Castiel spread his arms wide, indicating the people before him. “It is not a legend, or a special sword, or a noble title that keeps citizens safe in their beds. It is you. Every one of you.” He paused, giving the recruits a chance to absorb his words. “I hope you will come to understand that.”

Dean lost sight of Castiel, the group in front of him moving into his field of view. The recruits buzzed in response to Castiel’s speech. 

“Y’all think he means that?” 

“Easy for him to say. He’s got the whole damn Realm at his fingertips.”

“Me?”

“Wow. He is not what I pictured.”

“I didn't know he’d be _cute_.”

“How much do you think that sword is worth? Though I guess no one would buy it if I nicked it.”

“Maybe I can do this. The Angel said I could.”

The crowd began to file out and the knights tried to regain some semblance of order. The recruits returned to their groups, their actions infused with new energy. When the space cleared out, Dean did not see Castiel. In fact, no one saw him leave. The Captain walked alone. Dean went back to his training, went back to achieve his goals, but every chance he had he looked for a man with dark hair and blue eyes. Weeks would pass before anyone in the castle saw Castiel again. Dean never stopped searching. 


	3. Castiel

"What do you know about the Angel?"

Sitting on the bed on his side of the room, Sam looked up from his book. When they first arrived in the Capital, Dean rented a room above Andrea's Tavern. One silver coin earned him more than a year.

"Come on, Dean. Even you have to know something about him," Sam said, his eye roll well-practiced due to growing up with a brother like Dean.

"What do you mean 'even me?'" Dean sat down on his own bed and threw his pillow at his brother. Much to his chagrin, Sam caught it without a flinch. "Sure, I know of him, but, you know, if it doesn't have anything to do with swords or girls I don't really care."

Sam snickered into his book at Dean's choice of words and muttered, "Girls." Dean decided to ignore it. 

"Okay," Sam said after he schooled his face into a neutral expression, "then why the sudden interest?"

Two weeks. That was how long since recruitment day and no one had seen the Angel since. Dean continued to work hard. The Captain and his knights pushed the recruits to the edge of exhaustion every day with drills and lessons. Already, the group had shrunk from many people realizing that they did not have what it took to be part of the king's army. 

Even with his aching arms and sore, well, everything, Dean knew he had what it took. Walker, one of the knights, recognized Dean's potential. Dean's name was on a list, alongside a few others, and next week they were to become their own special group. Dean was well on his way to becoming a knight. The knight.

Dean did not know about the list. He did not know much-- not yet. He would one day. On that day, however, he only knew that he was tired and aching and very much confused about why he could not get the image of Castiel's sad blue eyes out of his head.

"I--" Dean rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of the reason himself. "I think I met him."

"Well, yeah. The whole city couldn't shut up about his speech. Apparently, he doesn't do that much."

"No, no. I mean--" Dean sighed. "I mean back in Lawrence, like years ago."

"Wait, wait, wait." Sam closed his precious book with a thump that normally would make him wince and sat up straight. "You're saying you met _the Angel_ and didn't tell me?" 

Dean blinked. He did not know his brother was a fan. "I didn't know it was him."

Sam's eyes were in danger of bulging out of his head as he leaned towards Dean. "Really? What was he like? Did you see his sword? Did he glow? Does he have wings?"

The questions kept coming, rapid-fire and each more absurd than the last. Dean reached out and placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, quieting him. Sam watched Dean with rapt attention.

"He's..." Dean clicked his tongue, not sure what to say. "He's just a guy."

Sam nodded at the answer and settled back down. He leaned against the headboard and reopened his book.

Dean did not move. "Do people really say he glows?"

"People say a lot of things," Sam said. "They say he single-handedly took on an army of ghouls. They say he can heal any wound. A lot of people believe he's a Celestial. A lot of people believe he's not."

"Right, sure. Why not? But"-- Dean licked his lips-- "does anyone know stuff about _him_?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like: does he prefer liquor or beer? Does he have a favourite colour? Can he ride a horse? Does he even want to be the Angel?" 

Although Dean never noticed, Sam was not looking at his book. He looked at Dean. He watched his brother's face, an expression on it that Sam had never seen before. Sam did not know what it meant, but he was right when his first thought was _this could be trouble_. 

"I don't know, Dean," said Sam. "Since you two are best buds now, why don't you ask him?"

"Shut it!" Dean tried to grab the pillow, but Sam hid it under his arm. "Give me that."

Sam hugged the pillow. "No. You'll throw it at me."

"Yeah. And I can't do that when you have it."

Sam's response was to sit on the pillow. Great. Now Dean would have to sleep on that.

⁂

The glass looked expensive, the bottle even more so. Castiel glanced up at the thump on the counter.

"I didn't order this," he said.

"S’alright, chief," the bartender said. "You look like you need the hard stuff."

Benny Lafitte came from the south and that was all he would say. Many rumours surrounded him and Benny, in his low, calm voice accented in a way no one recognized, would confirm every single one. The only rumours he would never entertain were the ones about Andrea, for whom he named his tavern. People learned not to ask.

Benny never asked a lot of questions and neither did Castiel. Somehow, they managed to understand each other more than most. Perhaps they saw themselves in each other, recognizing that, in a vast land full of people, they were the only ones of their type. Both of them were alone in this city.

"Thank you," Castiel said because Benny, as usual, was correct. Benny knew his regulars.

"You got it, chief." Benny filled the glass. "We talking about it or are we drinking in silence?"

Castiel grabbed the glass and downed it in one gulp. It had to be an expensive liquor, with the way it burned down Castiel's throat and pooled in his stomach, warm and rich. This was the kind of alcohol that could make Castiel drunk. That took a lot. Benny said nothing, never raised an eyebrow, and refilled the glass.

He sipped this one. "The king has decided I need to lead a task force."

That made Benny raise an eyebrow. "Task force?"

"He seems to think that's what elite armies do."

"That's what happens when you put a child on the throne." Benny stroked his short beard. "Or have a throne."

Castiel hummed a sound of acknowledgment, then finished his drink. He set the empty glass on the counter and tapped it.

"That's three," Benny said. "Best you take the whole bottle."

The bottle scraped across the wood. Castiel took it. He liked this bottle. It made him warm.

“Don’t you have more patrons?” Castiel asked.

Benny looked from one end of the quiet tavern to the other. He shrugged. “Jamie’s got it handled. ‘Sides, the rush won’t hit for another hour.”

The glass was unnecessary when Castiel could drink straight from the bottle. “I should probably pay for this.” It was somewhat difficult to find his pocket.

“S’alright, chief.” Benny grinned, his teeth white and straight. “You’ve given me enough silver as it is. And the simple rumour that this Angel guy drinks here? Well, that brings in some starry-eyed business, let me tell you.”

“Right. Glad to be of service.”

Benny chucked. “Of course you’d be an expensive drunk. Feel free to use room one if you don’t feel like hoofing back to the castle.”

Castiel made a disgusted noise at the last word. He took another drink.

“You know,” Benny said, eyeing the rapidly emptying bottle, “you should think about retiring. Do what I did: get on a boat and head to the other side of the Realm, open a bar with your ill-gotten gains, and live in the lap of luxury.”

“Is that the story this week?”

“Haven’t you heard? This week I’m a vampire.” He gave Castiel a toothsome smile. “Who was a pirate.”

A laugh bubbled up from somewhere in Castiel’s stomach. He pictured Benny in a sailor's cap, long fangs dripping with blood and the laugh became a giggle.

“Man, I should have given you that stuff _way_ sooner,” Benny said.

Benny watched Castiel with an air of disbelief. He had never seen Castiel laugh, let alone giggle. It had a similar feel of watching a hellhound wag its tail. Considering hellhounds were invisible, it was quite a sight.

“Agreed,” Castiel said, a slight stagger in his stance as he stood. A slight one. “I think I’ll take you up on that room.”

“Course. You know, that room could be yours if you wanna give up the whole legend gig. I could always use another server.”

Castiel blinked away the film over his eyes and watched Benny’s face shimmer. A good bottle indeed. When he was able to focus, he saw Benny’s offer was genuine.

“We both know I would never do that.”

Benny clicked his tongue. “Yeah. ‘Spose so.” He shook his head. “Well, it’s a standing offer. Enjoy your hangover, chief.”

The stairs wobbled on the way upstairs. A little. Castiel should have asked what was in the bottle. He reached the door of his room for the night. He ran his hands over the wooden door, wrapped his fingers around the worn handle, and had no desire to open it. 

The whole building felt hot. The floor vibrated with the laughs and shouts of the patrons below, the noise increasing as the night grew long. Castiel took a swig from the bottle and felt the heat rise to his skin. If he could see himself, he would have noticed that his cheeks flushed red.

Castiel could not see himself. He did, however, know of a secret in Andrea’s Tavern. That secret was, if one touched the shadows in the darkest corner of the second floor, one would gain access to the roof. Castiel made use of that knowledge. He perched near the edge of the roof, his back resting against the stone structure of the chimney-- unused as it was still summer in the Realm-- and gazed out over the Capital.

He saw the lights in the residents' windows, the lamps that lined the streets, and the stars in the sky. Most of all, he saw the castle, its pointed spires thrust high into the sky, as if in challenge to those that lived above. Castiel wanted to throw something at it but all he had was the bottle. Not a chance he would waste that.

He waited a month and six summons from the king before he returned to the Capital. He spent most of that time hunting a nest of vampires. He rubbed his shoulder in memory of some particularly sharp teeth. He wondered if any of them were pirates. Vampire pirates. There had to be a joke in that.

A task force: four names on a slip of paper, every one a fresh recruit. It was absurd. He led armies in service of the All-Father-- God-- for untold years and now, at the behest of a child, he had to try and turn four of the freshest recruits into something respectable. Castiel took a long pull from the bottle and considered taking up Benny’s offer. 

Living among the humans was never going to be easy. Castiel knew that the day he made his decision. He aged now but it was at a much slower rate than anyone else. Everyone he saw from his perch on the roof would grow up, fall in love, go through the bonding ceremony, have children, grow old, and die long before Castiel’s hair would turn grey. Castiel had already seen it begin to happen. Humans moved so fast, lived so much in their short lives, and Castiel had hardly begun to move. It was beautiful and admirable and so very hard to watch.

A sound pulled Castiel away from his thoughts. Castiel did not expect anyone else to know about or care about the roof. The liquor had long drained any energy he had to move so he did not bother to look when someone shuffled up behind him. 

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t--” The voice cut off abruptly which made Castiel acknowledge the new arrival. “Hold on. _Cas_?”

⁂

Dean could not sleep. It was a boisterous night in Andrea’s Tavern, enough that Dean’s pillow did little to shield him from the sound of clinking glasses and drunken laughter coming from below. Sam, in the other bed, was out like a light, not stirring a bit when what sounded like a tray of plates shattered, silencing the patron for a few precious seconds. The silence did not last. The noise started up again, even louder than before. 

It was not the noise that disturbed Dean, not really. His years growing up in a room above Harvelle’s taught Dean how to sleep through most anything. No, what kept Dean awake were the dreams.

The dreams started in childhood and followed him into his burgeoning adulthood. Fire and flames danced across his closed eyes, the smell of smoke singed his nose, and the cry of a baby assaulted his ears. 

It was his brother’s cry, from years ago, from the day Dean pulled him out of that burning building. The day his mother had died. The day his father had died in all the ways that mattered.

Dean had not dreamed since he entered the Capital. His training left him bone-tired, his sleep deep and needed, and he thought maybe, finally, he had left his childhood behind. Not so much, that night showed him. Many more nights to come would remind him as well.

That was why, on that night of all nights, Dean gave up on sleep and rolled out of bed. That was why, on that night of all nights, Dean went on to the roof. That was why, on that night of all nights, Dean conversed with Castiel.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, quiet and simple, like Dean had not let his surprise get the better of him. The last time his voice went that high, he just hit puberty.

“What are you doing here?” Dean asked.

“Now that’s the question,” Castiel said. He shifted his weight, the light glinting off the bottle in his lap. “Currently drinking.” He patted the space beside him. “Care to join me?”

Dean sat beside Castiel, who silently offered him the bottle. Dean noticed it was already half gone when he grabbed it, its amber contents sloshing around inside as he brought it to his mouth. He took a swig and coughed half of it up. What he managed to swallow burned on the way down. His next sip went easier, and Dean learned to love the smooth, rich taste of expensive alcohol.

Castiel remained quiet. In fact, he would never have said anything at all if it was not for Dean noticing, when Castiel reached out to take the bottle back, an angry wet line of red on his shoulder.

"Cas, you're bleeding."

Castiel blinked, his eyes refocusing, and, with great care and slow movements, looked at his shoulder. He pulled down his shirt and glared at the blood.

"I suppose I am," Castiel said.

"Shouldn't you do something about that?"

Castiel shrugged his uninjured shoulder. "It will heal."

"Probably would heal faster if you took care of it."

"Oh." Castiel checked his shoulder again. "I don't feel it."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's the liquor talking."

While he did not reply, Dean could see the barest hint of a smile on Castiel's mouth. Dean shook his head and stood up. 

"Stay there," Dean said. 

Over the years, Dean accumulated more than a few bumps, scrapes, and bruises trying to teach himself how to use a sword. Some of those bruises were a result of fights with the other Lawrence boys, more often than not over a girl, but Dean never told Sam that. Sam knew anyway. 

As a result, Sam became an overnight expert in stitches, bandages, and healing herbs. Though Dean grumbled about Sam fussing over him, Dean had to admit he was grateful for Sam's collection over the last month, especially after an overwhelmed recruit stabbed him in the arm during a disastrous training exercise. 

Sam had an herb garden back in Lawrence, most of the information he needed to grow them gleaned from his book, and many of the residents came to Sam for help with their aches and pains. When the Winchesters left Lawrence, Sam dried and bundled his herbs and secured a promise from Jo that she would take care of the garden. Dean was not so sure why he asked Jo of all people. She could not keep a patch of grass green if her life depended on it. Good thing she was not born a farm girl.

Tonight, of all nights, Dean was thankful for Sam's mother hen tendencies. Dean returned to the room, Sam in a dead sleep, and dug into the chest at the base of Sam's bed. He grabbed the items he needed and returned to the roof.

Castiel never moved. The single indicator that Castiel was still awake was that the bottle was slightly more empty than when Dean left. 

Dropping what Sam dubbed 'the Dean-aid kit' nearby, Dean knelt in front of Castiel. Castiel glanced up at Dean and Dean's brain made the extremely helpful observation that Castiel looked great in the starlight, too, especially with his flushed cheeks. 

Dean stared. Castiel stared back, wearing a soft little smile, and Dean could feel his face heat. The stare grew longer than social niceties allowed and then longer still. 

Finally, Castiel cleared his throat and said, "I assume you have a purpose."

Dean blinked and looked away, willing his mind to resume normal functions. He dug through the kit, laying out everything he needed, feeling Castiel’s eyes on him. Dean took a deep breath before facing Castiel again. All business, Dean directed Castiel to expose the wound. 

Dean was all business, so he did not notice Castiel’s solid muscles or tanned skin, and he only touched him out of clinical need, not fascination. At least, that was what he told himself.

Castiel was an excellent patient. He made no sound when Dean applied the stinging paste to his wound or wrinkled his nose at the smell. Dean always complained when Sam did this to him, though mostly because he liked to annoy his little brother as much as possible. 

“You know,” Dean said as he applied a bandage to Castiel’s shoulder, “that looks a lot like a bite.”

“Quite likely,” Castiel said. He leaned his head against the chimney and closed his eyes. “I cleared out a vampire nest.” He grinned. “Possibly vampire pirates.” 

“Vampire pirates?” Dean had no idea where that idea came from, but he could not let the opportunity go to waste. “Vampirates!”

For a moment, Dean thought he killed the moment completely. Castiel’s eyes flew open and he stared at Dean, his face blank. Then, without any warning, Castiel smiled. The laugh which followed took him over slowly, starting as a noise in his throat until he folded over from the force of it, grasping his knees to hold himself together. Dean watched the whole process with fascination. Even though it was the middle of the night, Dean felt like he witnessed the sun come out.

Castiel wiped at his eyes and lay back against the chimney. The amused sparkle in his eyes remained when he held the bottle out to Dean. “Clearly, I do not need more of this.”

Dean wordlessly took the bottle. Castiel shuffled over, clearing a space beside him so Dean could also lean against the chimney. Still wide-eyed from staring at the sun, Dean remained still for a long moment before he joined Castiel. They sat, shoulders brushing together as Dean finished off the last of the alcohol, and watched the lights blink out in the Capital one by one.

The edge of the bandage was barely visible over Castiel’s shirt collar. Castiel rubbed at it and Dean was about to tell him to leave it alone when Castiel spoke.

“Where did you learn to use herbs like that?”

“Oh, that’s not my area. My brother’s the nerd in the family.” Dean smiled, as he always did when he spoke about Sam’s achievements. “I was his test subject.”

“I see,” Castiel said. He rubbed at his shoulder one last time before folding his hands in his lap. “I have a feeling you were lots of trouble growing up.”

“Oh, plenty.” Castiel laughed. Dean liked making him laugh. “I bet you were a troublemaker, too.”

Castiel hummed and his smile faded. “That is one way to put it.”

“But,” Dean said, “all that trouble was worth it. I finally made it here.”

“Ah, yes,” Castiel said. Dean did not miss the sad tone in his voice. “You’re going to be a knight.”

“I am. Whether you think I can or not.”

“That’s not--” Castiel licked his lips. “I have no doubt you will. I only--” 

Castiel had a lot of words he wanted to say. None of them made it past his lips. Dean would not know or understand what it meant to be battle-weary for many years, but one day he would think about this night, of all nights, and finally name the emotion on Castiel’s face.

“--I only wish to know,” Castiel continued, “if knighthood is truly what you want.”

“Of course it is!” Dean’s voice grew louder and faster as he spoke, his words spilling out like beer in an overfilled mug. “Why else would I be here? Why else would I practice with my sword every night growing up? How else could I stop living off charity? How else could I give Sam a better life, save people, keep people safe at night?”

Castiel blinked. When Dean’s face came back into focus, it was like seeing him for the first time. 

“You have a bright soul,” Castiel said. “If you truly believe this is what you want, I will support you. However, I want you to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t let anyone take your light.”

In the face of such a sincere request, Dean could no longer look sullen over the Capital. He turned his head and looked into Castiel’s eyes. “Yeah. I can do that.”

It was so easy to make Castiel smile. The silence stretched between them, but it was a comfortable sort of quiet, the kind of quiet that healed the soul.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean waited for Castiel to pay attention. “What is it that you want?”

It was not meant to be a difficult question. Castiel stared at Dean, his eyes wide and his jaw open. “What?”

Dean lowered his brows. Upon realizing Castiel truly did not understand the question, Dean explained, “You know, everyone has a dream or something they want to be when they grow up. I want to be a knight. Sam wants to be the biggest nerd in all the Realm. Jo wants to learn about her dad. Vic wants to travel. Robin wants a family.” Which was the reason he and Robin broke up, not that he wanted to talk about that. Dean shrugged. “You know. Goals. Aspirations. Is there anything you want?”

Castiel continued to stare at Dean, his head tilted to the side as he thought about Dean’s words. “How very human of you.” 

“I’m sorry?”

“My path was decided from the moment I was created. What I wanted had nothing to do with it.”

“Wait. So you really are a Celestial?”

“I never attempted to hide it.” Castiel scratched his chin, his stubble almost a beard. “Do you truly know nothing of the Angel?”

Dean could not figure out Castiel’s tone. It was quiet, soft, almost hopeful.

“I mean, I know _of_ the Angel,” Dean said, “but I’m not asking him. I’m asking Castiel.” Dean was pretty sure that even Celestials had to blink, though Castiel had made no move to do so. “So, I guess what I’m asking is: what do you, Castiel, want?”

“I--” Castiel pressed his lips into a thin line and looked away. He stood and placed his feet at the roof’s edge, the stars on either side of him giving the impression of wings. “I don’t know. No one has ever asked me that.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

“I suppose I want--” Castiel faced Dean, one hand on his chin and the other across his chest. “I want absolution."

Without Castiel beside him, Dean began to notice the cold. “Absolution?”

“Yes.” Castiel returned to his seat, lolling his head against the stone chimney. “As unlikely as that is.”

The next silence was less comfortable. Dean watched Castiel, watched the stars shine in his eyes, and tried to understand. While Dean may not understand everything behind Castiel’s words, he knew pain when he saw it. He straightened and tapped Castiel’s elbow, mindful of his injured shoulder. Castiel blinked and escaped whatever place he had been in his head.

“Okay. I have a very important question to ask.” Dean nodded gravely. “Do you glow?” 

“Do I-- Do I what?” Castiel narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side. Much to Dean’s annoyance-- or delight, he could not decide-- he found the expression adorable.

“Glow. I must know. Doth the man glow?”

“I do not.” The words came out slow and halting. Pure confusion. It made Dean grin.

“Well, that’s not very Angel-y at all, is it? Do you have a harp?”

“Why would I have a harp?”

“Don’t know. I feel like you should.”

“Dean.” 

His name was spoken in exasperation, but a little fond, too. It reminded him of Sam. Dean laughed. Castiel smiled. 

“Okay, but for real, you seem like a pretty normal guy to me. So what's the big difference between me and you?” The next words would never have come out of his mouth if he had been completely sober. At least, in the future, he would blame the liquor when he thought back on this night. “Wait. You’re not junkless, are you?”

“Junk--” Castiel jerked his head back when he figured out what Dean meant. “No. I appear the same as any other human.”

“Really?” Dean clicked his tongue. It was an awkward question but, after his initial surprise, Castiel did not look offended. “So do Celestials, um--” His hands made the gesture on their own, really. “Pair up.” 

“Some do,” Castiel said. “It’s encouraged. Strong bonds provoke better fighting. Birth is so rare it is almost unheard of, but any children would be welcomed.”

Dean's heart thumped a rapid beat when he turned his body towards Castiel, his next question bursting out of him in his need to know the answer, even as his desire to know scared him. “Do you?”

Castiel watched Dean for a moment, never losing his neutral expression. “Once.”

“Once?” Dean did not mean to sound aghast. “But if you’re as long lived as they say--”

“I mean one person.”

“Point still stands.”

“Attraction does not occur often for me. And he--” Castiel snapped his mouth shut and refused to look Dean in the eye. “Anyway, he and I did not work out.”

Dean knew he should not prod at the obvious wound but he had one more thing he needed to know. “He?”

“Yes. The person happened to be male presenting. Is that so strange? Judging by the various shapes and bodies the king has tried to throw at me, I figured it wasn’t uncommon.”

“I mean, it _happens._ It’s just--” 

Dean did not know how to finish that thought. He did not understand why, when Castiel used a masculine pronoun, he felt something burst in his chest. He could not decide if it was joy, fear, or a little of both. He did not understand it because, while he knew attraction came in all forms, he never really considered that it could apply to himself. Even on that night, watching the starlight dance across Castiel’s face, he did not consider it.

The door wrenched open below them and a procession of drunks filed out of Andrea’s Tavern. They shouted and hollered, some struggling to stay on their feet, as they filtered out over the streets of the Capital. 

“Shit.” Dean stood, grabbing the kit still resting at his side as he went. “Is it really that late?”

“Or early, depending on your perspective,” Castiel added from his seat.

Dean’s eye roll was wasted, as his back was to Castiel. “Whatever. I’m going to be totally useless in training tomorrow.”

“Not as useless as me.”

The door slammed closed and the last of the drunks shuffled home. Dean yawned and never processed the meaning of Castiel’s words. He turned back around in time to see Castiel’s eyes close.

“Well, I guess I could try to get a couple of hours. Looks like you should, too.” Dean moved towards the exit. “Night, Cas.”

Castiel remained still but he glanced Dean’s way when he heard his name. “Goodnight, Dean.” When Dean stepped through the door, he heard Castiel say something else. Dean almost did not catch it, as the words were so soft. “And thank you.”


	4. Like Teaching Poetry to Fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to note that, if you find the Sam/Ruby interactions kind of creepy and uncomfortable, it means I've done my job right. If you need reassurance, it won't go very far.

The pounding in Castiel’s head was definitely a hangover. Castiel did not know he could get hangovers. His constitution was much stronger than the average human. What a wonderful discovery for him. An excellent start to an excellent day.

He stood at the front of the room. The servants set it up like a classroom: four desks pointed toward a blackboard. Castiel did not consider himself a teacher in any sense of the word but, in a few moments, he would have four expectant faces staring up at him. The thought of it made him sick. Or maybe that was the remains of last night’s binge. Likely both, Castiel concluded. 

Dean. What was it about Dean? Ever since Castiel left Heaven he never let himself open up to anyone. Yet, Dean's bright eyes and wide smile made Castiel want to speak. Castiel had not felt like an individual-- a person-- in a long time. 

Walker appeared in the doorway, glowering as usual. Walker never spoke to Castiel more than he needed and he never once looked Castiel in the eye. An excellent fighter-- especially against vampires-- Walker’s antisocial tendencies were often overlooked. He volunteered for the bloodiest, most suicidal missions and came back victorious every single time. Most of the time, he returned alone. 'Acceptable casualties,' the reports said. Most people avoided joining him on the field.

“They’re here,” Walker said to the wall. 

Garth entered first. He tilted his head back, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. He let out an astonished whistle.

“Golly,” he said, never once losing his friendly smile, “I reckon you could fit my entire village in this castle.” He waved at Castiel. “Hello again!”

Pamela stepped in behind him, her face serious. She paused in the centre of the room and looked Castiel directly in the eye. As soon she did, her forehead creased and her mouth dropped open. 

“Are you _okay_?” she asked, clamping a hand over her mouth when she realized she spoke. Pamela recovered quickly, her face smoothing into a neutral expression before Castiel could reply. “Of course you are. Why wouldn't you?”

“Wait"-- Aaron swaggered into the room with his arms behind his head-- “does this mean we have to study _more_? This is seriously cutting into my, uh, herbal refreshment time.” Aaron blinked when he noticed Castiel watching him. “Okay. Maybe this is not all bad.”

“Aaron,” Pamela said. “You do know who this is?”

Aaron glanced at Castiel. He dropped his arms to his sides and straightened his back. “The herbs were medicinal, I swear.”

Muted voices sounded from the hallway. Castiel kept his eyes on the open doorway, waiting for their final arrival. 

Dean walked in with a faraway look on his face, running both hands through his hair. He stopped a few paces from the door when he noticed that everyone else stared at him. Dean gave his fellow recruits a courtesy glance, saving his attention for Castiel.

“Uh, what’s…” Dean trailed off, taking in his surroundings. 

Clearing his throat, Castiel stepped forward. Three of the four recruits instantly stood at attention, their backs straight and chins high. For Aaron and Pamela, the movement was natural and practiced. Garth concentrated so hard that his body trembled and threatened to topple over. Dean delayed, raising an eyebrow at the actions of the others. Eventually, he followed suit, but not before he gave Castiel a sardonic grin. Unbecoming for a potential soldier, but Castiel appreciated the gesture all the same. 

“At ease,” Castiel said. The recruits settled; Garth groaned in relief. Castiel indicated the desks before him. “Please choose your seats.” Each person followed the order with minimal fuss. Four faces shone as they stared up at Castiel. "I take it no one explained anything to you?" Four blank looks answered his question. Castiel sighed. "Of course not." This day was an excellent day, indeed. He really should have asked one of the scholars to prepare him a speech. "Right. The crown asked the knights to choose their most promising recruits. You four were chosen. I am supposed to…" Castiel could not look at their faces, not even Dean's, so he spoke to the back wall instead. "Teach you, train you, and turn you into a sort of task force in the coming months."

"Chosen?" Pamela raised her eyebrows, her attention drifting towards Garth's desk beside her. "All of us? Really?"

Garth bestowed his best smile upon Pamela. "Happy to be here!"

Pamela turned away from him without a word. She looked over at the desk on the other side of her, narrowing her eyes at Aaron's barely concealed giggles. On the opposite end of Garth's desk, Dean ignored the antics of the others. Dean propped his head up with his hand and struggled to keep his eyes open.

"I got an idea!" Garth said once the room stayed quiet for more than a few seconds. "Why don't we all introduce ourselves?" Garth ignored the groans from the other recruits. "I'll go first. I'm Garth Fitzgerald the Fourth. Named after my dear Pa, you see. I'm from a village not far from here. I came here to make a name for myself and help feed my brothers and sisters. Gotta take care of family, ya know." Completely unfazed by the blank stares pointed his way, he indicated Pamela with his hand. "How about you, my new friend?"

With no pretensions, no secrets, and no ability to dislike anyone, Garth was exactly as he appeared. He was the eldest of eleven brothers and sisters and the smallest. His father spent the first decade of Garth's life worried that his son would never find his calling but Garth's uncanny ability to have everything work out for him-- if sometimes in an unorthodox way-- eased his father's mind. When Garth decided to follow his whims to the Capital, his whole family wished him well, knowing he would be just fine.

At first, Pamela said nothing. She looked around the room, lips pursed. When she realized that no one in the room would save her, she relented.

"Pamela Barnes."

"Barnes?" Garth held his chin in his hand. "That sounds familiar."

The Barnes family, who owned the land in the foothills, was an old, familiar name dating back centuries. Despite their many accomplishments and long standing rule, when people heard the name all they asked about was the family gift. Pamela would scoff at them, call it a curse, and remind people that the seer blood in their family had long since diluted out. The Barnes family had not borne a seer in almost a century. If Pamela could sometimes see into people-- as she had, a moment ago with Castiel-- that was her business and her business only.

"Does it matter? There are no titles here." Pamela looked up at Castiel, holding his gaze longer than most. "Or so I've been told."

"Oh, please!" Aaron interjected. "The only thing I got going for me is the Bass name. You know, my grandfather fought in the Golem War eleven billion years ago. We've been riding that out _forever_."

Aaron was never one for listening to his family history. His grandfather fought in the Golem War-- with them, not against them-- almost sixty years ago. Not a single Golem had been seen since. If someone asked Aaron about the Golems, he would share his doubt that they even existed at all. His sickly grandfather, someone Aaron could never envision as the great warrior if his youth, appeared to Aaron as a man clinging to his last bit of sanity. Issac Bass was not losing his mind. His mind was clear, so very clear, as he watched the heir to the Initiative, the only Bass child to survive into adulthood, ignore his birthright in favour of other, more hedonistic, pursuits. Sending Aaron to become a knight was Issac Bass's last attempt to instill some responsibility in him. 

Castiel should have interrupted long ago, steer his charges back on track, do what he was supposed to do, but it was much easier to stand back and watch the humans banter. Put four humans in a room and each one acted entirely different. It was fascinating. A group of Celestials would already be out on the training field, methodically working their way through each drill, each battle, to prove their worthiness to the All-Father, as was expected of all Celestials. These humans were here of their own volition, their own free will, and Castiel could not help but admire it. He assessed many recruits before, had led many more into battle, but he had never been so close to them before.

Dean's lack of sleep had long since caught up to him. He slumped over his desk, vaguely aware of the bickering beside him. Sam, coped up in the tavern room for far too long, had insisted on accompanying Dean to the training grounds. Later, when Dean was called to the castle, Sam followed. Thankfully, Walker said nothing about Dean's kid brother following him around like a puppy and had even agreed to take him to the castle's library. Dean worried. He always worried about Sam. At that moment, he was conjuring up every possible bad scenario that could happen while Sam was out of the room and out of sight, even though he knew, at most, Sam would be buried in a pile of books he could barely read.

Castiel did not know what Dean was thinking, only that he appeared tired and despondent, a far cry from the strange, easy-going human he spoke to last night. Then again, Castiel did not appear much better, with his shadowed eyes and pounding head.

"How about you?" Garth asked.

Both Dean and Castiel startled at Garth's voice, trying to figure out to whom he was speaking. Apparently, the conversation moved on while they were lost in their heads. 

The question was directed at Dean, though he took a while to notice it. He jerked upwards, attempting to appear alert, and blinked when he noticed everyone focusing on him.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sorry, what?"

"What's your name, friend?"

The room fell silent. Dean squirmed in his seat under the scrutiny of his peers. He glanced at Castiel but he did not ask for help. He would wish he had.

"Uh, Dean. Dean Winchester."

"Winchester?" The shocked questions came from both Pamela and Aaron. Garth, having grown up outside the Capital and away from the nobility, did not have enough knowledge to be surprised.

The look on Dean's face suggested he wanted to crawl under his desk and allow the stone floor to swallow him whole. "Yes?"

Many years ago, not long after they met, Captain Singer said Castiel had what he called 'an impressive poker face.' That was also the day Castiel learned about poker and the day he learned he was good at it. As it turned out, Castiel’s so-called poker face was useful for more than a card game. He stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, and watched the chaos unfold.

“I mean,” said Aaron, “maybe there’s no relation? After all--”

“That won’t matter. And--” Pamela looked at Dean, silent for a beat. “He is.”

Garth’s smile faltered the tiniest amount and tried to catch Dean’s attention, as he never meant to cause a scene. Dean, however, was not interested in speaking. He glared down at his desk, his eyes seeing nothing, with an expression on his face harder than steel.

“Okay, sure,” Aaron said. “But _officially_ he never existed.”

“Oh, please. No one talks about it but _everyone_ knows the name Winchester.” Pamela leaned forward, looking around Aaron to Dean. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Dean’s body shook. The conversation, full of unspoken words and hidden meaning, gave Dean enough information to suspect, enough knowledge to start to see the connection between his name and the reaction of the nobles.

“Pamela. Aaron. Garth.” As soon as Castiel spoke their names, all chatter ceased. “Head to the training grounds and run through your warm-ups. I will follow you shortly.”

“But--” Aaron started to protest.

“Give it up, Smokey,” Pamela said, heading for the door.

“Fine,” Aaron said, following her. 

Garth stood and addressed Dean, “Sorry.” He left with his head hanging low.

With that, Dean and Castiel were alone. Castiel watched Dean, watched as he took a deep breath and willed his body to still. It did not work. Dean stood, both hands pressed against the desk. He stayed there for a long moment.

"They were talking about a John Winchester, weren't they?" Dean asked, quiet and calm.

"Yes."

Castiel and John Winchester had crossed paths many times, but John wanted little to do with Castiel. That suited Castiel fine. John was a driven man who rose through the ranks of the army in record speed, thanks to Queen Kate. He was given command of his own group of warriors and his choice of missions. Castiel rarely had to work with him but, when they did, Castiel could feel John's hatred. Non-humans had taken his wife, his old way of life, and John wanted to eradicate every last one of them. That was his one and only mission. Non-humans were bad; humans were good. John did not have time for grey in his black and white ideology and he placed Castiel firmly into the category of bad the day they met.

Dean pursed his lips, nodding his head. He balled his hands into fists. In one swift movement, Dean raised his arms above his head and brought them down, slamming both fists into the desk. The desk dented upon the impact.

"When did he come to the Capital?" There was no emotion in Dean's voice, even as his body shook.

"I think…" Castiel counted. His perception of time was different from most humans. "About fifteen years ago." 

Dean's head bobbed up and down, an attempt at another nod, and he straightened his posture. He turned slowly, calmly, before kicking his chair across the room. Castiel remained calm, understanding Dean's need to lash out.

"You're telling me," Dean said, whipping back around to yell at Castiel. "You're telling me my father was here this whole damn time! This whole time!" Dean shouted now, stomping into Castiel's personal space with each sentence. "He left us. Left _me_ to take care of Sam and could even be bothered to make a three day journey to see us? His own sons? Sam asked me so many damn times: 'Why don't we have a dad? Where's our mom?' And I had to answer him when I didn't know myself. So I told him he was out there, fighting for us, and he'd be back one day but-- but--"

"He did fight," Castiel said. "He was an important figure in the Long War."

"Okay. So why does he officially not exist? Where-- Is he--"

From only a few steps away, Castiel could see the shine in Dean's eye,. It was the last shred of boyish hope that his father was still out there, still able to return to him. 

"As far as I know, he is still alive. He was disgraced because he abandoned his charge."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure. I wasn't there but, from what I can tell, he left his platoon without a leader to pursue his personal revenge. He never returned, though people reported sightings of him a few years ago. I would not put stock in those, however." 

The late king ordered John Winchester's discharge after he heard the story. The queen was struck with a grief so great when she heard the news she was sick for months. That moment solidified the rumour about young Adam's parentage among the nobility. 

One blink and the shine was gone from Dean's eye. Castiel wanted to do something, wanted to reach out and offer what little comfort he could provide, but Castiel did not know how. Instead, he answered Dean's questions as truthfully as he could. Castiel told Dean everything he needed to know about John's disgrace and everything people would whisper one they heard the Winchester name. It was not fair, but Dean would be judged for the sins of his father. Castiel knew it would be easier to hear the information from a sympathetic source.

At a young age, Dean's father had left him and his brother in the care of Ellen in pursuit of revenge but it was this day, the day Dean stood in an empty classroom with Castiel, that he had truly lost his father. The stigma of his family name would make Dean's goals harder but, if anything, Dean's motivation grew. From that day forward, he became even more determined to prove himself.

"Please know," Castiel said, "that you will continue to have my support." 

Perhaps it was strange to pledge himself to a man he hardly knew, but Castiel knew the words that came out of his mouth, unbidden, would be true for as long as he lived.

Dean nodded. He had not said much during Castiel's explanation but he listened. He listened to all of it and now he needed to act, to do something before his emotions made him lash out in a way he would regret.

"I think I'd like to train some more," Dean said. "I need to hit something."

They left the classroom behind and joined the others in the training grounds. The other three backed off quickly when they saw the stormy expression on Dean's face. Under the instruction of Castiel, Dean continued to train, continued to work towards his goal of becoming a knight with a new determination. That determination would serve him well.

⁂

The castle library had become a refuge for Sam over the last week, an escape from the dower tavern room he shared with his brother. Sam had seen Dean mad, had seen him angry enough to start many fights, but Sam had never experienced Dean like this. Dean was seething in rage over something he would not talk about and Sam spent the last few nights in uncomfortable silence, trying not to provoke his brother.

The knight called Walker unsettled Sam with his silent stare but, with the knight's permission, Sam could use the library as much as he wanted. All he had to do was stay out of the scholars' way and listen to Frank's orders. Frank, however, was often too embroiled with the other scholars about his theory that there was another dimension filled with shape-shifting sea monsters who wanted to eat all human life. The scholars would smile at Sam and tell him not to worry about Frank. Frank was old, they said, but he was an intelligent man, if odd.

That did not matter to Sam. What mattered was, when Frank was deep in one of his arguments, Sam could wander the stacks to his heart's content.

That was how Sam met Ruby again.

She appeared exactly as Sam remembered her, right down to her long black cloak and mysterious smile. Her smile grew dangerous and she beckoned Sam to follow her with one finger. Under a trance his young mind could not yet understand, Sam did as she asked and followed Ruby deep into the stacks, so far that the sound of the scholars' voices faded away.

Ruby led him to a dusty section where a huge sign which read 'restricted' hung overhead. Sam learned that word due to Frank pointing it out on his first visit. He was told, in no uncertain terms, that he should never be caught poking around those kinds of shelves.

So, all Sam had to do was not get caught. Ruby stopped at the end of a long row of shelves hidden in the darkest regions of the library. She put a finger to her lips, making sure Sam followed her instructions, and pointed up.

The shelf they stood beside was nearly bare, but Sam could see the spine of a book hanging over the edge of the topmost ledge. Sam opened his mouth to ask Ruby if that was what she wanted him to see but, when he turned back towards her, the space she once occupied was empty.

Sam reached for the book. Even stretching both his arms to the limits, he could not touch it. He cursed his small stature and wondered if he would ever hit that fabled growth spurt his brother told him would happen. Sam had not seen it all year and he was becoming impatient. Sam left the book and wandered into the other row, intending to find something to use as a stool.

He kept his eyes on the floor as he walked, thinking about Ruby. Sam had not sought her out, not because he did not want to, but because he had no idea where to start. She found him instead. Sam always possessed a curious mind. The book begged to be opened and begged Sam to consume all the knowledge within. Sam hoped, once he did that, Ruby would find him again. He wanted to see that glimmer of pride in her eyes.

So intent upon his task, Sam completely missed the person in front of him as he turned the next corner. He smacked into the man, never once noticing his presence. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t--”

Sam’s words were cut short when he looked up and did not recognize the person above him. The scholars all wore robes of various colours which indicated their knowledge levels and expertise but this man wore light armour and a sword. 

Castiel closed the book in his hands. He had no idea who the boy that ran into him was, but he clearly expected to be reprimanded. Castiel smiled instead. 

Half expecting to be dragged out of there by the elbow, Sam did not look the person in the face. When a moment of silence passed without any angry words, Sam chanced a glance upward. The last thing he expected was a smile. That made Sam bolder. The book in Castiel's hands, with a strange sketch of a half-man half-bird on the cover, caught Sam’s attention. 

“What are you reading?” Sam asked.

Castiel squinted at the book. He held it out so Sam could get a better look. 

“Sometimes your scholars get more wrong than they get right,” Castiel said.

“What do you mean?”

“This is not how a Celestial appears.”

Castiel said it with such authority that Sam narrowed his eyes and studied Castiel’s face. Connections were starting to form in his mind but, before they could complete, Sam heard Frank muttering to himself a row away.

“Now where is that damn kid? Whole lot of trouble that one but when the knights ask, you do. Oh, I’d like to--” Frank’s voice cut off when he turned the corner. He stopped behind Sam. Sam expected a harsh word or two, but instead, he saw Frank staring wide-eyed at Castiel. 

“Hello,” Castiel said, unfazed.

Frank stuttered, staring and stopping a few sentences before finally saying, “I-I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know anyone was back here. I hope this _boy"--_ He paused his sentence long enough to glare at Sam-- “hasn’t been bothering you.”

“Not at all,” Castiel said, replacing the book on the shelf. “It seems this _boy_ , as you call him, is seeking knowledge as well. Perhaps you should consider sharing it.”

The words were delivered in an even, friendly tone but Frank stepped back as if he had been hit. 

“Of course, sir. What are you seeking?”

“It seems I am woefully unprepared to teach your history. Could you point me to some useful materials?”

“Yes, yes. That would be down this way.” Frank pointed around the corner. “Follow me.” He started down the hallway.

“Thank you,” Castiel said. 

He stepped back from the shelf. He paused, hand on his chin, and, unblinking, peered into Sam's eyes. Sam squirmed under the scrutiny, but his pride did not let him break away. Castiel smiled and looked away first, following Frank’s path. 

“One more thing,” Castiel called down the hallway. Frank paused and moved back to hear him. “This _boy_ has a curiosity that should be fostered.”

“Is that an order?”

“More a request.”

Sam slumped over, trying to make himself appear even smaller because the two men’s assessing stares were heavy on his shoulders. Sam was not used to being seen. Sam chanced a glance upwards and he noticed Frank’s eyes were missing their usual distaste when he studied Sam.

“I’ll consider it,” Frank said. “Sam, please return to the front of the library.”

It was the first time Frank used his name. Sam nodded, pushing past the men to follow Frank’s instruction. 

“Your name is Sam?” Castiel asked before Sam left his sight.

“Yeah.” Sam crossed his arms and raised his chin, not letting Castiel's height intimidate him. He ignored Frank’s scandalized face. “What’s yours?”

“Castiel. It’s good to finally meet you.”

Sam did not have time to speak further, as Frank shoved him back towards the front. Sam figured it best to follow the order. Ruby and the book were still on his mind. However, as long as he could return to the library, Sam knew he could come back for it one day. 

He did not know it yet, but that chance encounter with Castiel had solidified his future and sent him down his chosen path. That day, however, all he could think about was the smirk on Ruby’s lips.


	5. Warm

A month passed and the days grew shorter, heralding the arrival of the cold season. Dean cursed the loss of daylight as he tried, and failed for the umpteenth time, to hit the bullseye with his arrow. On second thought, he would settle for just hitting the target.

Garth, lucky as always, handled the bow in the weirdest possible way and managed to hit the bullseye every single time. His fellow classmates started in open-mouthed disbelief at his success. Castiel, after trying and failing to make him properly use the bow, shrugged and figured if it worked, no matter how unorthodox the method, it worked. 

Pamela attacked the task with the same single-minded focus she applied to every aspect of her training. After a full day of practice, she was able to reliably hit the bullseye each time. 

Even Aaron, as lazy as he could be, hit the bullseye with enough regularity that he was declared proficient. That was enough for him, so he skipped off to join Ash-- one of the healers-- for some 'herbal refreshments' hours ago.

Dean remained out on the archery range, failing to hit anything but the treeline. Everyone else had long since packed up for the day but Dean refused to stop until at least one of those cursed arrows did what he told it. He dropped his training bow and walked into the trees to collect his arrows, one of which he lost and could not hope to find in the low light. 

When he returned to his bow, he spared a wave for Jim, an old retired knight who lit the castle’s lamps at dusk. Jim lived a long, interesting life and, since Dean was usually the last of the recruits to leave the training grounds, they sometimes stopped to chat. Jim fought alongside Dean’s father and was happy to talk to his son about their days together. In many ways, it was painful to hear about John’s life in the castle-- a life without his sons-- but Dean still wanted to learn what he could about the man. John was still his father, despite everything. 

Jim left Dean to his training, and Dean raised his bow once again. He pulled the string taut, took a deep stabilizing breath, eyed the target, and let fly. The arrow flew directly into a tree. Dean lowered his arms and stood there. He wanted to blame the bow, blame the arrow, blame the low light or blame the target itself but he knew that the only thing that could be blamed for his failures was Dean himself. 

“Your stance is still off.”

The voice behind Dean was familiar now, having spent months under his tutelage, but it did not stop Dean from dropping his bow and reaching for his sword at the intrusion.

“Dude,” Dean said. “Do you make _any_ noise when you walk?”

“It’s a skill,” Castiel said. He closed the distance between him and Dean and picked up the discarded bow. “Why are you still here? I thought I heard all of you planning to drink tonight.”

“It’s not night yet. And I still haven’t even hit the damn target.”

“As I said: Your stance is still off.” Castiel raised the bow in one fluid movement and placed his feet shoulder width apart. He pointed at his feet to make sure Dean noticed. “You focus so intently on the target, you tense up.” He tightened his fist around the handle as he spoke, then loosened it to demonstrate the proper grip. Castiel grabbed an arrow from the quiver on Dean’s hip and notched it in the bow. “Draw back the string not using your arm, but your back.” He demonstrated. “The string should be to your lips and your hand under your chin, not at your shoulders.” Castiel waited until Dean indicated his understanding. “Now you should focus on your target and release the string. Once you let go, your stance should remain the same.” The string hardly made a sound when Castiel loosed the arrow. It hit the target with a loud thwack. Perfect bullseye. Castiel held the bow out to Dean. “Try again.”

Dean took a deep breath. He followed Castiel’s instructions. However, at the last possible second, he caught a glimpse of Castiel directly beside him, watching him, assessing him, and Dean lost his grip on the string. The string twanged when he let go and the arrow bounced on the dirt, a few feet away from the target. Dean’s cheeks burned.

Instead of reprimanding him, as knights like Walker would have, Castiel pressed his lips together and decided to use another method. He stepped in behind Dean and gently, yet firmly, pressed his hands against Dean’s shoulders. Castiel noticed the tension there, but he attributed it to physical exertion and embarrassment. 

That was not the cause of Dean’s tension. Dean did not expect Castiel’s touch. He certainly did not expect it to feel so warm, for it to spread a thrill, a shiver, through his whole body.

“Whoa! Cas, what are you doing?”

Castiel kicked at Dean’s feet until they were the right length apart. “Relax.”

“Trying to!” 

Which was the truth, though Dean found it hard to do so when Castiel reached forward to grab Dean’s arm at the elbow.

“Raise your bow,” Castiel said, his voice directly in Dean’s ear.

Between that low, rumbling voice in his ear and the fact that Castiel’s chest was practically pressed up against his back, Dean could not relax. Not at all. He raised his bow anyway. 

“Relax your grip,” Castiel said.

Dean’s treacherous mind made him wonder what that would sound like in a completely different context and that was not helping with the relaxing. Not at all. He forced his fingers to become less tense.

Castiel handed Dean an arrow from Dean’s quiver. “Draw back.”

Castiel’s hand rested between Dean’s shoulder blades as Dean followed the instruction. The hand moved up Dean’s forearm when the string was taut, pushing it until Dean was positioned correctly. Castiel’s hand stayed there, warm and steady.

“Good.” Castiel’s voice was a whisper now. “Aim.”

Dean did as he was told. Castiel’s hand moved up Dean’s arm until it reached his hand, his touch light across his knuckles. Dean very nearly let go then, prematurely, before he found the right spot. On the target, of course.

“Release.”

Dean wanted nothing more than to follow that command. The arrow flew, launching into the target and landing right beside the one Castiel loosed earlier. 

“Well done,” Castiel whispered. 

The last rays of sun receded into the horizon, and the training grounds were encased in the darkness of night. Dean never noticed. In those few still, silent seconds after Dean loosed the arrow, Castiel remained pressed against him. Castiel’s hands rested on Dean's arms, strong yet soft at the same time. Dean could only focus on that and the fact that he felt impossibly, inconceivably warm.

When Castiel stepped back, Dean noticed the sun’s absence. 

“There,” Castiel said, “now you can enjoy your night.”

“I…” The night air cooled Dean's scorched cheeks. “What?”

“You were planning on drinking, were you not?”

Bow still in hand, Dean turned around. Those blue, blue eyes stared at him, hardly visible in the lamplight, but Dean felt warm all over again. Castiel took the bow from Dean’s loose grip.

“I will store this for you. Go. Enjoy your night and your day off, if you can.”

Still dazed, Dean watched as Castiel walked away. He almost disappeared into the darkness by the time Dean’s mind caught up to what was happening. Dean jogged after him. When he reached Castiel, panting and red-faced, Castiel watched him with a tilted head. 

“I thought I--” 

“I know. I know,” Dean interrupted. “I just forgot to say something.”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

⁂

As it turned out, outside the training ground and out from under the eye of the watchful knights, Pamela was _fun_.

“Come on, Grumpy,” Pamela said to Dean after their third round. “With a face like that, you must’ve left a few broken hearts back home.”

“You’re one to talk,” Dean said. “With your pretty, well, everything.”

Pamela laughed, her smile lighting up her whole face. “With lines like that, I know you’re a heartbreaker.” 

“Why don’t you find out?”

Another laugh. “Maybe a couple of years ago, honey.” She winked. “But I gotta admit. The offer is tempting.”

The walls Andrea’s Tavern echoed with the laughs of happy drunks and the music of a traveling bard. The patrons danced to the music and sang every drinking song they knew. Garth loved to dance. He was not particularly good at it but that did not matter once the drink started to flow. He attracted a crowd who tried to imitate his odd, jerking movements. 

“Really?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “Why’s that?”

“Oh, you know. You meet a guy. You think it'll last forever.” Pamela downed the last of her beer. “Well, Jesse wasn’t forever.”

“Screw him. You deserve better.” Dean finished off his mug in solidarity.

“Damn right I do.” Pamela grinned. “Besides, I don’t go for taken guys.”

“Taken? I’m not taken.”

Pamela gasped. “Right. Right. Of course. My mistake.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, noticing that Pamela would not meet his eyes. “What made you say that?”

The drunks started yet another drinking song, one that was hardly coherent with the number of drinks flowing. They were halfway through the chorus before Pamela opened her mouth to answer.

Three mugs thumped against the table and Aaron dropped into one of the empty chairs. “You will not believe what I went through to get these.” 

“I don’t know,” Pamela said, all traces of solemnity lost. “Try me.”

“Well, first of all: Garth. Like, in general. He’s doing some kind of weird circle dance with his groupies…”

Aaron’s story continued, long and full of drama, with Pamela reacting in exactly the right way at exactly the right time. The moment had passed and Dean would have to go without an answer to his question. But he thought about it. He thought about it for the rest of the night. When he thought about it Dean’s mind, for some reason, wandered unbidden into thoughts about the training ground, about how Castiel felt pressed up against his back, and about feeling warm.

⁂

With a recommendation from the Angel himself, Sam was inducted into the ranks of the scholars. He spent his days leaning over dusty tomes alongside his fellow initiates, leaning more in a day than he ever would in a lifetime back home in Lawrence. Sam's gift for healing and herbs was quickly discovered. The days he did not spend in the library he spent in Ash's tent, acting as an apprentice.

Ash's tent-- he refused a room-- smelled of smoke and sweat, but the man's brilliance could not be denied. He spoke of philosophy and the laws of the universe while simultaneously patching up a soldier's wound. The herb garden behind his tent held many plants Sam had never seen and Ash constantly worked to improve his craft. The patch behind the herb garden was full of tall green leaves and Sam was told to leave that area alone as it was for 'personal use.'

"Alright," Ash said, nimble fingers closing up the gash on a trainee's arm, "your patient comes to you with pain in his joints. What do you give him?"

"Um," Sam chewed his bottom lip as he thought. Ash applied a poultice to the trainee's arm. The wound already appeared less red. "Willow bark?"

"Right on, little dude." Ash stepped back from the cot the trainee occupied and grabbed a bandage from the supply table nearby. "Give it to them as a tea or a tincture. Whatever works." Ash patted the trainee's arm after applying the bandage. "Pretty good at helping with hangovers, too." He winked. "Okay, my guy. All patched up. Careful with the sparring next time, eh?"

The trainee nodded and left the tent without a word.

"Alright, Samuel." Ash pronounced each syllable of Sam's name carefully, until it took him forever to say. He started doing that not long after Sam told him to never call him Sammy. "That's all the time we have today. See you next week." 

The sun hung low in the sky when Sam went outside. Dean insisted that Sam returned to the tavern at the same time as him and, since Dean never left the training grounds until after dark, Sam figured he had more than enough time to circle back to the library.

The few scholars left in the library gave Sam a nod of acknowledgement before returning to their tasks. Sam nodded back and, with his head held high like he had been granted permission, walked right into the restricted section.

A few days after he was accepted by the scholars, Sam found a crate that no one would miss. Another two days and Sam finally managed to open the book.

This book, while similar in appearance to the one he kept in his room, was very different on the inside. The pages were filled with spiky handwriting and detailed illustrations of the inner workings of the human body. Some of the pictures were useful but others were unsettling, gruesome in their obsessive detail. Sam's old book held secrets about healing and how to use the Realm's natural resources. The new book was about bodies and how one could use and improve each part and piece. 

The later pages, the ones Sam could not read yet, talked about living forever by stitching new organs into an old body. Sam never met the author of the book but, had he seen Doc Benton in person with perfect surgical lines across every patch of skin accumulated over hundreds of years of replaced organs, he would have set the book back down.

Sam found the book disturbing but all the information was just science presented as something to stimulate intellectual curiosity, nothing more. Sam had a lot of intellectual curiosity so, whenever he had a spare few moments, he tried to decipher the writing on the page. The more he learned from the scholars, the more he could understand. 

The clock chimed and that was Sam's cue to meet Dean at the castle gates. Sometimes it annoyed Sam that Dean still treated him like a boy-- he was fifteen, closer to sixteen really, if one ignored his springtime birth, and to Sam that meant he was a man-- but Sam had agreed to that condition in order to study. He put the book back on its shelf, placed so only someone looking for it could see it and rushed out of the library.

"Okay, you bastard. How did you know?"

Sam skidded to a stop, his small frame hidden behind a shelf of books.

"I'm sorry?"

Sam peeked around the corner. This late in the day, most people would be heading back to their rooms or the dining hall for a snack before it closed for the night. The library was empty except for the two people sitting across from each other at a table a few feet from Sam. Castiel's seat faced Sam, a pile of books and papers laid out before him. 

Captain Singer leaned his grey head into Castiel's space. "The battle! It went exactly as you said, complete with the flanking manoeuvre. If you hadn't said something we'd have lost everyone. How'd you know?"

"I don't understand why you would be angry about a lack of casualties," Castiel said.

"That's not--" Captain Singer breathed deeply and forced himself to calm down. "It's not that. It's that you keep accurately predicting the enemy's movements each time. I was always told that they're just a bunch of mindless monsters. But then you come in and start telling me to do all these things. I've never had so many victories in my career. And I'm getting pretty old, let me tell you."

"That is--" Castiel tapped his fingers on the book before him in a rapid pattern. "That is something I'm not sure you want to know."

"Want to know or _need_ to know?"

Castiel grew still and quiet. Sam could not see the myriad emotions which flashed over his eyes, a product of centuries of doubt and decades of questioning. To Sam, Castiel appeared calm and steady. Only the few who knew Castiel could read his face.

"I haven't figured that out yet," Castiel said.

"And what does that mean?"

"How long have we known each other, Bobby?"

Captain Singer's whole body froze and, for a few seconds, the library was completely silent. Then, as if he had not spent all that time with his mouth hanging open, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his short beard.

"Must be…" The Captain paused as he thought. "Going on sixteen years now."

"In those years, have I ever given you a reason to doubt my honour?"

"I-- No. No, you haven't."

"Then please trust me when I say that my intention is to help." Castiel sat straight backed in his chair, his face serious and his eyes far away. "But there aren't many Celestials who think like me."

Captain Singer remained quiet. Sam never met the Captain officially, but even he could tell the man was fighting a complex internal battle. 

"Okay," he said after his deliberation. "I know you're hiding something but you're also the best damn thing that's happened to this army. Don't make me regret choosing not to press this."

"I'll do my best."

"Your best is pretty damn good." Captain Singer took a deep breath, letting go of the tension in his body. "So, does this mean I get to call you Cas now?"

Castiel blinked and all that conflict and emotion disappeared. He rested his chin in his hand and leaned on the table. "I think I'd like that."

Cas. Castiel. Sam resisted the urge to slap himself on the forehead when he made the connection. Of course that guy Dean would not stop talking about would be the freaking _Angel_. 

Oh no. Dean. Dean was not going to like Sam's tardiness but Sam did not have a way to leave the library without revealing himself to be a snoop, if an unintentional one. Sam walked further down the shelf and picked a book at random. He waited a few moments and, with as much confidence he could muster, walked out from behind the shelf and toward the tables at the front of the library.

"Sam."

Sam looked behind himself to see if his soul was there. He jumped hard enough at the sound of his name for it to be possible.

Castiel stood alone now, a stack of books under one arm. He peered at Sam with his head at an angle. Sam squirmed under the gaze.

"Uh, hey," Sam said. "I, uh, lost track of time and--"

"That book is not very accurate," said Castiel.

Three slow blinks later, Sam figured out what the comment meant. He flipped the book around to see the cover. The half-bird half-man glared at him, displeased at its use as a prop.

"Oh! Um--"

"Still," Castiel continued, "it could be an intellectual exercise for you. Feel free to talk to me about the more absurd parts."

Sam hugged the book to his chest. "Thanks. I'll-- I'll do that." He headed towards the exit, feeling as if his feet were floating. At the last second, he stopped in the doorway and faced Castiel. "Hey, um, you know my brother thinks highly of you right? He'd never say it, but, well, you know." Castiel's only change in expression was to squint. Sam shrugged. "Anyway. Don't tell Dean I said this but he's usually right about people. So, you're a good guy. Okay?"

At that point in time, Sam was not one of those people close to Castiel. At that point in time, Sam had no idea what the still silence that followed his words meant. At that point in time, he did not understand why Castiel turned away from him to gather up the rest of his books with excessive care. 

His back to Sam, Castiel cleared his throat. "Thank you, Sam. I--" 

The clock chimed. 

"Oh, no!" Sam whipped around, practically running out the door, his words coming out so fast they were almost one word. "Dean's gonna be so pissed. See you later, Cas. Bye!"

He left Castiel alone in the empty library. Castiel faced the open door and wiped at his eyes.


	6. Gold

Three summons. Castiel figured he was pushing his luck if he waited any longer. Ever since he took charge of the four recruits, Castiel had not left the castle for any length of time. He could not pretend to have missed the king’s call.

Three months. Three months and the recruits formed into something nearly respectable. Three months and Castiel had no chance to patrol the Realm and keep it safe from the Creatures of the Night. Captain Singer was more than willing to follow Castiel’s suggestions, sending knights in the Angel’s stead, but Castiel grew more restless each day. He was a wanderer at heart, the type of individual who could never sit still and was never content to let others act in his stead. When he commanded the Celestial army he always led from the front. Yet, here he was, left behind while a squad of knights chased after rumours of rugarus. 

The last knight faded into the horizon. Castiel sighed and returned to the castle, his want fighting against his need with each step.

Kings and Queens from the long ruling history of the Capital glared down at him as he strode down the long hallway towards the throne room. Ornate patterns of gold decorated the stone walls, engineered to dazzle and awe the king’s visitors. The trappings had no effect on Castiel, not even the first time he saw them. He had once stood at the Throne of God. Nothing human made could compare. However, Castiel knew all that beauty, all those displays of wealth and power, meant absolutely nothing for the one who inherited the throne. They did nothing to build it.

The guards nodded as Castiel passed, opening the doors for him without a word. Castiel nodded back in thanks and stepped forward to stand before the Throne of Gold.

King Adam, his crown askew, lounged upon the cold metal as if it were a comfortable armchair in his private quarters. Had he brought his advisors, as a king was supposed to do, he would have been chastised and corrected long before Castiel arrived. With only King Adam and Castiel present, the throne room appeared large indeed. 

The Throne of Gold sat on a raised platform, all the better to symbolize the king’s standing amongst all others. King Adam must have thought he looked imposing with his ability to leer down at Castiel. Castiel was not impressed. He knew that King Adam was waiting, forever waiting, for the day the Angel would kneel to him. That day would never come.

“Your Majesty,” Castiel said, standing tall.

“Angel,” the king said. 

The titles echoed within the room too big for them both. King Adam straightened his posture and stood from the throne. While the king had grown a lot over the summer, he was still a few heads shorter than Castiel. The king was aware of that, perhaps too much, and took great care not to step down from his platform. 

“How fares your task?” King Adam asked.

“It fares well.” Castiel prepared for this question a month ago. “The recruits are determined and work hard each day. I believe they will soon be a valuable asset to your army.”

“Good. Good.” The king shuffled his feet. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms. His next question was less formal in tone, more hesitant, like he was unsure if he wanted an answer, “Is-- Is it true that one of them bears the name of Winchester?”

Ah. That was why none of the advisors were present. They would never have let King Adam say that name. 

“Yes.” There was no need for Castiel to lie. The rumours had been swirling ever since Dean’s identity was revealed.

“And that he has a brother, who you recommend to the scholars?”

“Yes.”

“I--” King Adam stuttered, his arms crossed over his chest. For a moment, he looked like the boy he never had the chance to be. “I see. Are they well?”

“As far as I can tell.”

The crown slipped from the king’s head. He caught it but did not put it back on. He held it to his side. “I am glad to hear that?” His feet did not have an answer, even though he asked them the question. 

Castiel watched the king, watched the boy named Adam, as a veil of melancholy fell over his face. He did not appear as a king now. He appeared as a young man who could never ask-- could never know-- if he had a family. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Adam was only in his thirteenth year. Castiel ached for the boy, but he knew any comforting words offered by him would be met with a sneer.

“Is there anything else you wish of me, Your Majesty?” 

King Adam blinked and the melancholy was gone, replaced by his usual proud stare. “Yes. It’s time for your task force to prove their worth. Walker will fill you in on the mission details.” He returned the crown to his head and once again lounged upon the throne. He waved his hand at Castiel. “You are dismissed.”

Castiel left without a final pleasantry. He marched out of the castle. The crisp, cool autumn air let him breathe again. 

A mission. He expected the day would come soon. That was, after all, the purpose of his instruction but he could not keep himself from worrying about the prospect. Taking his recruits, his students, on a mission meant risking their lives. That was expected. This was an army. These were prospective knights. Obviously, there would be missions. Obviously, there would be risks.

A pit of worry, wider than he had ever felt before, opened in Castiel’s heart. Serving drinks at Andrea’s Tavern never felt more appealing, especially since he would have to deal with Walker.

Not today. He may be confined to the castle, but that did not mean he could not use his sword. Castiel headed for the training grounds, expecting few people to be there so late in the day.

Ever the hard worker, Dean swung his sword into the training dummy with fierce determination. He applied every lesson, every technique Castiel had taught him and his improvement showed in each strike. There was no doubt that Dean would become a great knight like he always dreamed. Still, Castiel wished that Dean lived in a place where there was no need for fighting, no need for knights, and no needless deaths.

Dean set down his sword and walked over to the bench, reaching for his water skin. He paused halfway through the movement when he caught sight of Castiel.

“You know, Cas,” Dean said, grabbing the water skin. “I think I’m gonna put a bell on you.” He drank and missed Castiel’s confused expression. “Anyway. I thought you had some kingly businesses to attend to or whatever.”

Months of instruction, including a session on the importance of courtly manners and how to address those above him in rank, and Dean never lost his casual attitude toward Castiel. Castiel never reprimanded him. 

“I did,” Castiel said. “And now I don’t. For now.”

“That so? So why are you spending your precious free time out here?”

“Because I,” Castiel said, picking up Dean’s abandoned sword, “need to hit something.”

Castiel approached the training dummy, the straw stuffing poking out from its cloth covering. It resembled a torso, with a circle representing a head attached to the top, and that was more than enough for Castiel to see a face. The face sneered at him, sneered as he did when he sat upon the Throne of God, a throne he never helped build, and stripped Castiel of his command. The face changed shape, changed to one of disappointment, the same expression on the face of the one Castiel thought he loved. The face kept shifting, changing to the late and current king, to the ones that died under his command, to the one that lived, and then, finally, to Castiel himself.

The dummy’s head flew halfway across the training grounds and the body was torn to shreds. Castiel panted and allowed the sword to drop from his hand. The sword fell with a metallic clang and it brought Castiel back to the present. Straw danced around his feet like dust in the wind.

“Wow. Glad you’re on our side.” Dean stood beside Castiel, holding out his water skin. Though he did not need it, Castiel took the offering. “Glad I wasn’t the one who pissed you off.”

Castiel drank deeply and missed the way Dean’s gaze lingered on his throat. “It has been…” Castiel returned the water skin. “A difficult day.” Month, year, life-- Castiel’s perception of time could be a bit skewed.

“I can see that,” Dean said dryly, staring at the straw drifting over the grounds. “Is it the kind of day that can be helped by spending time with a friend?”

“Friend?”

“Come on, Cas. Don’t sound so surprised. I’m your friend, aren't I?”

Not once did Castiel consider the possibility. He had comrades in arms, he had acquaintances, he even had a lover, but he never had friends. 

“I-- I’ve never--” Castiel stopped there but Dean knew what he meant.

“Really? Well, as we know, there’s a first time for everything.”

Dean draped an arm across Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel felt warm.

⁂

Dean’s offer of company was genuine but he did not expect Castiel to follow him to the stables. All recent recruits were expected to fulfill certain day-to-day tasks around the castle. The knights claimed it built character. The truth was that the crown had not hired enough stable hands and decided to use the recruits to fill that role. The recruits in Dean's year were lucky. Each person only had to muck out the stables once a week on a rotating basis. The year before, they had to dig latrines and clean the chamber pots, a daily task.

“Really, buddy,” Dean said. “You don’t need to grab a shovel or anything.”

Castiel followed Dean inside and did just that. Dean’s task went twice as fast with help. Throwing another shovelful behind him, Dean caught a glimpse of the great, legendary Angel up to his knees in muck. What would the people say if they saw their hero stripped down to his undershirt with his hair full of sweat? Dean knew what he would say, not that he would speak it aloud. 

_Wow_. 

The horses whinnied and Dean remembered he was not here to stare. Not that he was staring, he reasoned as he went back to work, he was just checking on his friend. Dean’s perception of his feelings could be a bit skewed. 

By the time he finished, Dean’s arms ached more than his first day of training. The horses watched him from their freshly cleaned stalls as Dean slumped against the nearest wall, preparing himself for the long walk back to the tavern. Dean closed his eyes and felt thankful he grew up working at Harvelle’s and not on one of the farms. 

Castiel returned with the emptied wheelbarrow, his eyes bright and cheeks red from exertion. His hair stood up every which way. Dean tried to push down the thought that popped into his mind when he saw Castiel like that. The thought was right, though. Castiel did look good.

“My, my,” Dean said, pushing off from the wall. “Who knew the almighty Angel could muck out the stables like us common folk?”

Dean knew he earned that glare. Had anyone else said something like that to Castiel, there would have been a lot more anger behind those eyes.

“There’s a lot people don’t know about me,” Castiel said. He walked along the stalls. “There’s something refreshingly honest about this type of work.” He stopped at one of the centre stalls and clicked his tongue.

Dean believed he knew Castiel. Perhaps he did. He knew more than most, at least, just by making the effort to learn Castiel’s name. Every time Dean spoke to Castiel, Dean learned something new about him. Castiel could argue the same about Dean.

A snarky reply was replaced by a strangled noise in Dean's throat when the horse in the stall responded to Castiel’s call. Dean never paid much attention to the horses when he was working. Mostly he cursed the nearest ones for leaving behind such a mess. 

“Dude,” Dean said. “That is one ugly horse.”

The horse in question whined at Dean’s comment. Castiel uttered a few, soft, comforting noises and the horse nuzzled into his shoulder, its protruding eyes staring at Dean. Its wide nostrils, long face, and rough patchy coat brought to mind a child’s drawing. Dean swore the horse was offended.

“And yet,” Castiel said, combing through the horse’s sparse mane with his fingers, “he still has value.”

The ice in Castiel’s tone told Dean he should have thought before he spoke. Dean stepped forward and stood on the other side of the horse. He reached out and patted its snout once. The horse snorted.

“You’re right,” Dean said. “Sorry, buddy.” The horse huffed at Dean, then turned his attention back to Castiel. 

“Seraph is a result of some overzealous breeders,” Castiel said. “They were going to dispose of him before I put a stop to it.”

“Oh. So he’s here because of you.”

“Yes. I wanted to save a life. For once.” 

Dean decided to think before he replied. Unfortunately, that meant he did not have a reply at all. 

Seraph whined and nosed at Castiel’s arm. Castiel pushed its snout away.

“Yes, yes. I have one. Give me a moment.” 

Castiel dug into his pockets and produced a freshly harvested apple. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared. Seraph plucked it from Castiel’s hand with a quick, practiced accuracy. Seraph snorted and Castiel laughed at the sound. 

To Dean, Castiel’s smile was brighter than the setting sun in the window behind him. The sun fanned around Castiel’s head in golden hues, almost like a halo. Dean watched Castiel, watched as he patted Seraph on the snout with true joy in his eyes and realized that he had never once seen Castiel look so happy. A thought came into Dean’s mind, unbidden and soon to be ignored. 

_He is beautiful._

But the thought occurred. At that moment, Dean stared at Castiel and could not think about anything else. 

“Dean,” Castiel said, which snapped Dean out of his reverie. “You know there’s no shame in asking for help.”

Dean blinked a few times in an attempt to follow the abrupt change in topic. 

“I-- What?”

“You can’t read.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve done all the assignments you’ve asked for.”

“I know.” Castiel gave Seraph one final pat on the snout before stepping away from the stall. “And they are always done well. However, I suspect Sam is the one transcribing them.”

The words, delivered in Castiel’s soft, nonjudgmental tones, made Dean shrink. He rubbed at the back of his neck and stared at the ground.

“You, ah, you weren’t supposed to figure that out.”

Castiel’s feet came into Dean’s view, straw stuck to the toe of his boots. “Why not?”

“Because--” Dean stopped short, unsure of how to answer. 

He did not know how to explain that he was always told that Sam was the smart one and that he was the one who fought. He did not know how to explain how it took him weeks of staring at those blocky symbols on the page before he finally swallowed his pride and asked Sam for help. He did not know how to explain that he heard the noble-born recruits talking about him-- talking about the Winchester name-- and it made him realize he needed to be the best, the brightest, the hardest working to get half the recognition of his peers. Admitting he could not read would give the gossips even more ammo against him. 

He did not think he was smart enough to learn how to read. His brother made it look so easy, but whenever Dean tried the letters swam before his eyes and he would give up, frustrated. He convinced himself he could never learn. 

“Because you just weren’t, okay?”

All the horses quieted in response to Dean’s sharp tone. Castiel stepped closer and, after a short, silent moment, he placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. The touch burned.

“All my life,” Dean said to the dirt beneath his feet, “I’ve been the town’s charity case. Dad left us and we lived with Ellen. We were fed by the farmers. And I couldn’t pay them back. Not that they would expect it but--” Dean sighed. “So I came here because I figured I’d be able to better take care of Sam this way. And he’s happy here. I know he is. But that because of what you did and nothing that I--” 

Castiel cut Dean off with a squeeze to his shoulder. He waited until Dean looked up before saying, “That’s not charity, Dean. That’s humanity.”

“What?”

“Humans. They nurture and protect. They take care of each other. Of course, not all humans act that way. That’s the price of free will. However, I find that preferable to the way Celestial--” Castiel shook his head. “Never mind. My point is that this Ellen you speak of, and all those others you mentioned, helped you and your brother so you two can, in turn, help someone else. I suspect this emphatic sense is what makes humanity so resilient.”

“If Sam keeps hanging out with the scholars is he also going to spring a bunch of deep philosophy on me out of nowhere? Because my head can only take so much.” 

Castiel smiled and the amused sparkle in his eyes was the exact same as the one when he and Dean first met. “After our next session, I want you to stay in the classroom for an extra hour each day.” At Dean’s confused glance, Castiel elaborated. “I’m going to teach you to read.”

“You’re going to _what_?”

“And perhaps, one day,” Castiel said, “you’ll help me in return.”


	7. Guiding Hands

“So get this: it says here that Celestials are ‘born in the Flame of Creation?’ I’m having a hard time understanding that.”

In front of Sam, a book lay open on the library desk. The illustrator attempted to depict a Celestial walking out of flames with wings spread wide. It was not great. Sam squinted at the dark, blocky letters and read the passage again. 

“Actually, that one is not that far off.” Castiel traced the line of the Celestial’s wings. “The majority of Celestials were not born, but created. The story goes that the All-Father, or God, shaped us all out of his holy light. His light is known as the Flame of Creation.”

“Really?” Sam peered at the page. “So you weren’t, like, a baby or anything? You just sort of”-- He waved a hand, encapsulating Castiel’s form-- “came to be?”

“I walked out of the Flame with my sword in my hand. That was how it was known that I would be a warrior.”

“Seriously? Then if I walked out with a book--”

“You would have joined the ranks of the learned.”

“Okay. But say I wanted to be a warrior. Then what?”

“Your purpose has already been decided. God does not make mistakes.” Castiel stroked his chin and muttered, “Or so I’ve been told.” 

“Wow. That seems kind of, well, limiting. I mean, I wouldn’t have known I’d like to study if I hadn’t opened my first book.”

“That’s a very human way of thinking.” Castiel sat back in his chair, a faint smile on his face. 

Sam made a fascinated sound, still trying to decipher the words before him. He paid little attention to the library around him, even when Frank shouted at an initiate a few tables away.

“Hey, Cas. These uh-- what’s the word?” He pointed at the picture again.

“Illustrations?”

“Yeah, that. All these illustrations show Celestials with wings. Is that real or just another crazy thing?”

If Sam had looked up from the book, he would have noticed the way Castiel shifted in his seat. He would have noticed Castiel twitch his shoulders. In fact, he may have even noticed how carefully Castiel made his face blank. As it was, Sam stared at the illustration, wondering what it would be like to step out of the Flame fully grown. Maybe then he would be tall enough to reach the top shelf.

“Most do,” Castiel said. “They’re not so much made of flesh and bone as they are of power and light. They are only physically present if the Celestial chooses to show them.” 

“‘Most do?'” Sam repeated. “So, some do not?”

Castiel’s shoulders twitched. Sam missed the flash of pain before he spoke. “Yes. Some do not.”

The noon bell rang out, saving Castiel from having to answer the next question. Sam’s hunched shoulders popped when he sat up in his chair. 

“It’s that late already?” Sam glanced around the library. The scholars hurried to the dining hall, hoping to beat the recruits and knights to the meal. That way there would be something left. “I was supposed to meet Dean and--” Sam paused, taking in Castiel’s sombre mood. Castiel never reacted to the noise around him. “Y’know. I don’t think Dean would mind if you joined us.”

Sam closed the book, breaking Castiel’s long held stare on the illustration’s wings. Sam waited for an answer to his question, long after most of the library cleared out.

“I appreciate the offer but it’s best that I don’t,” Castiel said. In response to Sam’s lowered brow, Castiel elaborated, “I tend to attract too much attention.” His words held no vanity. Just fact.

“Really? I’ve never noticed that here,” Sam said.

“Scholars are the quiet sort. Recruits are not so much.” Castiel quirked an eyebrow. “You best hurry. I hear they have apple pie today.”

That made Sam move. Dean would never forgive him if he missed out on pie. Sam waved goodbye to Castiel and hurried out of the library.

“Hey, Cas!” Sam shouted from the entryway. “That’s a”-- He searched for the phrase he learned the other day-- “a standing invitation. See you later!”

Sam’s parting words echoed down the hallway. Alone in the library, Castiel shook his head and smiled.

⁂

After charming the cooks with one of his winning smiles to get it, Dean’s second piece of pie lay untouched. The latecomers glared at their table. If Dean noticed them, he never reacted. Sam finished off the last of his bread, watching with fascination as Garth told an elaborate tale about his family's lucky cow, Bessie. 

Sam met Garth a few weeks ago when he plopped down at Sam and Dean’s table without any preamble. Dean told Sam he grew on people. Sam was starting to believe that. 

“And there she was,” Garth said. “Halfway down the creek. Nobody knows how she got there. Anyway, she refused to get outta the water. Poor old Pa had to hop right in to force her out. She wouldn’t move her left front leg. So Pa checked her hoof, thinking the girl hurt herself, and found her standing on his grandmother’s old ring. That thing had been missing for years. Pa was so flabbergasted he knelt right down in front of Ma then and there. They’ve been married for some twenty years now.” 

“Wow,” said an enraptured Dean. Sam would have made fun of him for it, but Garth had a way of spinning a tale. Sam was just as starry eyed. “All that because of a cow?”

“I know, right? Old Bessie’s getting a bit grey these days, but she is happier than a pig in muck. Gotta take care of our girl.”

Dean leaned back, rubbing his full stomach. “Man. Starting to wonder if we could use our own lucky charm next week.”

Garth sighed, his expression more serious than Sam had ever seen. “Yeah. But it's what we're here for, right?” Dean mumbled an assent. “I mean, they’re even sending Mister Castiel with us, so the vam--”

The rest of Garth’s sentence was cut off by a harsh hiss from Dean. Dean’s eyes drifted toward Sam and Garth covered his mouth with both hands. The noise drew a few curious glances from the table nearby. Sam acted as if he did not notice the exchange. 

While Sam knew Dean’s mission would happen soon, he did not know much else. Dean was under an order of secrecy but it still bothered Sam to not know how long Dean would be gone or even what he would be fighting. Not knowing worried Sam. However, Garth’s slip of the tongue did help ease Sam’s mind. Castiel would be there. Sam knew that his brother would be as safe as possible.

“So, what are you up to this afternoon, nerd?” Dean asked Sam once the curious onlookers turned away.

“More stitching practice. Useful for the next time you fall naked out of a tree,” Sam said. 

Garth choked on his drink. “The next time you _what_?”

The tips of Dean’s ears burned red. “I thought we agreed to never speak of that again.”

“No,” Sam said. “You agreed. I said nothing.”

“It’s not my fault her dad came home early!”

“It’s your fault you were in her room.”

The bell rang, signalling the end of mealtime. The hall began to empty as people returned to their duties. 

“Hey, Dean.” Garth pointed to Dean’s unfinished pie. “You gonna eat that?”

Dean peeked out from over his hands. “Oh. No.” He wrapped it in a cloth napkin. “That’s for later.”

“If you say so.” Garth stood from his seat. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t like being late. See you later, Sam.”

Sam tolerated Garth's pat on the head. 

“But for real,” Sam said. “What’s up with the pie?”

“What? A guy can’t keep a snack for later?” Dean rolled his eyes.

“I’ve literally never seen you leave behind any part of a meal. Especially pie.”

Dean gathered the empty plates, keeping his hands occupied and avoiding Sam’s eye. At first, Sam only brought it up to tease Dean. Now, he wondered why Dean was on the defensive.

“Come on. Just let it go.” Dean stood. “And you’re going to be late for those stitching lessons. I’ll blame you if my arm falls off and you can’t reattach it.” 

“What-- That’s not--” Sam looked around the dining hall, realizing he and his brother were the only people left. “Oh shit.”

Dean’s chuckle followed him out the door. Sam had a habit of rushing from one thing to another with little chance to breathe. That habit never changed. 

⁂

No matter how hard Dean tried, he could not keep the letters from moving. They danced in front of his eyes, even though he knew that that was physically impossible, and they would not stop. It did not help that Castiel sat across from him at his desk, looking at him, observing him, expecting something soon.

Dean groaned and pushed the book away. “Look. I don’t get it. I never have. Sorry you wasted your time.”

“I’m not letting you give up, Dean,” Castiel said. “You must be aware that the crown expects its high ranking knights to be literate.”

“I know.” Dean crossed his arms. “I kind of hoped they’d make an exception.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No.” Dean sighed. “I thought I’d try to fake it. Then you figured me out.” 

“There would be no need to fake it if you learned.”

“I know! I’m trying. But the stupid letters won’t stay still.”

As soon as Dean said the words, the expression on Castiel’s face changed. “Oh. So that’s what it is.”

Castiel closed the book and set it aside. He stood and searched the shelves at the back of the room. He returned with a burlap sack full of something Dean could not see. 

“Uh, Cas. What are you doing?”

Castiel upended the contents of the sack. Dean’s desk was soon covered in a fine layer of white powder. 

“Is that flour?” Dean asked.

Castiel squinted at Dean. “Obviously.”

“Why do you have flour in a classroom?”

“I asked for it.”

That cleared nothing up for Dean and he was about to tell Castiel as much when Castiel slid his chair over to sit beside Dean. Castiel’s shoulder brushed against Dean when he leaned forward and traced his finger through the flour. 

Dean blushed, which was absurd because there was no reason for him to blush. Even when Castiel leaned back, his face mere inches away from Dean so he had a clear view of those annoyingly blue eyes, Dean would not admit he had a reason to blush.

“There,” Castiel said, pleased with himself.

Dean sat up in his chair and peered down at the desk. There, in Castiel’s careful handwriting, were three words. Dean recognized the shape of two of them.

“The first one is my name,” Castiel said. “The second is yours. The last one is Sam’s.”

He could see it now. The bold curve of the letter ‘D,’ the serpentine shape of the letter ‘S.’ The Lawernce village elders-- and Sam, after Dean was deemed a lost cause-- tried to teach Dean this before, but Dean had given up long before he could truly learn. 

“Now.” Dean jumped at the sound of Castiel’s voice so close to his ear. Castiel gathered a patch of flour below the names. His fingertips were white when he pulled back. “Choose one of them and we’ll learn how to form the letters.”

Dean chose Sam’s name. Castiel spent the next hour patiently showing Dean how to shape the letters, covering Dean’s failed attempts over and over again with more flour. Not once did Castiel become frustrated. Not once did Castiel belittle Dean. Not once did Castiel call him stupid. He only covered up yet another shaky attempt and told Dean to try again. By the end of the hour, Dean wrote out three wobbly letters that resembled a name.

“See?” Castiel's hands were coated in flour and white patches ran up his arms. “I knew you could do it.”

Dean drew a circle around the letters he made. He did that. He made them. There were only three letters but, to Dean, they were so much more. Dean sat back, eyes still glued to the table.

“I did that.” Dean’s words were soft and astonished. “I did that!” He shouted, becoming bold in his excitement 

Castiel made an amused sound and stood from his chair. He walked behind Dean and clasped a hand on his shoulder. When Castiel raised his hand, he let out a gasp. Dean looked down and saw a clear imprint of Castiel’s hand on his shoulder and Castiel watching him with a worried expression. 

A beat of silence passed and Dean stood as well. He ran his palm through the remaining flour on the desk and, with his most serious and dire face, slapped his hand onto Castiel's chest, right over his heart. The flour puffed into a cloud at the impact and Castiel stared down at it, mystified. The cloud settled into his hair.

After that, Dean could no longer hold himself together. He snorted because Castiel with a flour handprint over his heart was even more ridiculous than the mud-covered Castiel in the stables. Dean’s laugh burst out of him when he envisioned the Captain walking in right at that moment and seeing that his trusty, hard-working Angel was actually a giant dork with a wide gummy smile, a laugh like a flowing river, and flour in his hair. 

By the time the two of them recovered, Dean was late for sword practice. He did not care. He did not care because Castiel looked happy-- happy because of him-- and he wanted to stay in that moment as long as possible. 

Dean gathered his belongings, knowing he was in for an earful from Walker, when he saw the napkin spilling over the edge of his pouch. 

“I almost forgot,” Dean said, turning back to Castiel.

“Dean. You should--”

“I know, I know.” Dean waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture. The other presented the napkin to Castiel. Castiel stared down at the crumpled piece of pie. Dean focused on his feet, inexplicably bashful. “It--it looked better before I stuffed it away, I promise.”

Castiel reached out-- from Dean’s point of view, the movement was agonizingly slow-- and took the offering. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Well, I mean, I never see you at the dining hall so I figured you never get the good stuff and I thought, maybe--” Dean stopped because, once he found the courage to glance at Castiel, he saw an expression on Castiel’s face he could not describe.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said. “You should go to your next lesson.”

“Oh shit.” Dean’s eyes went wide, a very Sam-like look within them.

Just like Sam, Dean rushed out the door. Castiel marvelled at the family resemblance. Castiel wrapped the pie back up in its napkin. He rarely felt the need to eat. That night, however, Castiel would try apple pie for the first time. He would like it. He would trace the handprint over his heart-- the one Dean left there to remain all day-- and he would smile.


	8. Blood Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well. Is that a faint whiff of plot I smell? Things'll get a little meta but, you know, his name is METAtron.
> 
> (i do not apologize for my terrible puns)
> 
> Don't be afraid to tell me what you think! I love interacting with readers. :)

With Dean away on the task force's first mission, Sam took advantage of his newfound freedom. He spent his nights in the castle library and read from the book.

He read about herbs that could poison his enemies, information that had been removed from the library's other books to prevent young scholars from causing harm to themselves or others. He read about words that could be spoken to throw faraway objects-- or people with enough practice. Sam sounded out the words but he dared not say them aloud. He read about how to enhance the capabilities of the human mind, how to become more powerful and more knowledgeable than Sam could ever conceive in his wildest, most self-indulgent dreams. All he needed was something the book referred to as s _anguis_. 

He was determined to find out what that meant. Sam returned to the front of the library, the late night heavy on his eyes, knowing what he would research the next day. 

The castle library was silent and dark. Every few nights, Sam would encounter a scholar deep in his or her research, needing the answer to a question before sleep could come. That scholar never noticed Sam sneak out. Or so Sam thought. Too bad Sam never looked closely at the cloaked figure, the same one every time, intently focused on an upside down book. 

On this particular night, however, the cloaked figure was not present. Sam walked down the steps to see a girl watching him.

The girl was about Sam’s age. With her white dress and long blonde hair, Sam, for a moment, thought she could be something more than human. Something magical. Something beautiful.

“Hello,” Sam said. His voice was loud among the silent books.

“Hello,” the girl said, a furrow in her brow. 

“Is something the matter?” Sam asked. 

“I seem to be lost.”

In this light, Sam could not decide if the girl’s eyes were green or blue. He decided he should step closer to figure it out. 

“Is that so?” Sam asked. “Where are you trying to go?”

“The maid’s quarters.” She pursed her lips and took in her surroundings. “I think I may have taken a wrong turn.”

“You sure did. It’s on the other side of the gardens. Separate place.”

“Oh. I see. The castle grounds are so big.” She bit her bottom lip. Sam smiled at the gesture. “Mother always said I’d get lost in my own house. Thanks for the help.”

She turned away. Sam immediately felt the loss. It was so late at night and Sam could not help but worry about the lone girl walking across the dark grounds all on her own. And, well, Dean always told him girls liked gentlemen. Maybe it was time Sam tried it out.

“Hey! Wait!” The girl turned at Sam’s words. “Why don’t I show you the way?”

“Oh, thank goodness,” the girl said. “I’d probably end up back here on my own.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you there safely.” Sam jogged the short distance to catch up to the girl. “I’m Sam. What’s your name?” 

“Jessica.” She smiled. “But my friends call me Jess.”

“Well, Jess,” Sam said. “Nice to meet you.” 

After that, Sam’s free nights were no longer spent in the library. He walked through the gardens with Jessica. He read her stories while she worked. He brought her flowers he picked from the garden, up until he was caught by the groundskeeper. Sam and Jessica spent all their spare moments together. There was no time for him to continue his perusal of the book. But the book was still there, waiting in the back of Sam’s mind, waiting for him to be ready.

⁂

In the middle of a long abandoned farmhouse, facing the combined might of a close knit group of vampires, Castiel realized he had become far too personally invested in his charges. 

Garth and Pamela chased after the two runaways under Castiel's orders. Castiel knew that they were more than equipped for the job but having them out of sight caused his heart rate to rise. Aaron knelt by the cages in the corner of the building, checking to make sure the prisoners inside had not been turned. Castiel, Walker, and Dean faced the bonded couple in the middle of the farmhouse. They were old, ancient in human terms, and powerful. Together, they evaded every trap the knights and mercenaries set for them and they did not plan to fall to one now.

"Come now," the female vampire purred, "you think you're the first knights sent after us?"

The male vampire assessed Castiel, the slightest hint of concern on his ageless brow. "You aren't like the rest of your group."

"You're right," Castiel said, unsheathing his sword. The vampires' eyes widened in recognition. "I'm not."

The sword was as much a part of Castiel as his heart. It gleamed in his hands-- that part of the legend was true-- reacting to the presence of the Creatures of the Night. The power in Castiel's blood and the power in his sword worked in balance. Together, Castiel and his sword were a fearsome sight.

"Angel," the female vampire hissed, her fangs bared and her shining unnatural eyes full of hate.

She lunged for Castiel, leaping past Walker and Dean at inhuman speeds. Castiel staggered under the impact of her landing. One hand gripped his sword arm and she aimed the other for his neck. She yanked him closer, her maw wide and her teeth sharp.

Castiel lost sight of the male vampire. He heard a hiss and a shouted command from Walker. He needed to trust the others to do their duty.

The female vampire and Castiel were locked in a stalemate as he tried to push her away and she tried to pull him closer. She was much stronger than the vampires Castiel dealt with in the past. Or, maybe, Castiel had grown weaker. 

"Hey! Ugly!"

A rusty shovel slammed the female vampire's head, distracting her long enough for Castiel to free his arm. She snarled and spun around, her foot hitting Dean square on the chest. The kick sent him flying into a dark corner. Castiel fought the urge to run after Dean and leave the enemy unsecured. As a result, Castiel hesitated, giving the vampire a chance to recover. He fell into a defensive crouch, cursing his mistake.

Everything halted when the female vampire screamed.

It was a mournful sound, borne of grief and anger. It could have been a name, the name of the male vampire whose head rolled across the floor, severed by Walker's sword. It could have been a simple scream, a primal sound wretched from a woman who lost what little humanity she had left when she lost her lover.

Either way, she turned her back on Castiel. In one swift, sure movement her head joined her lover's on the floor.

Castiel gave her no ceremony. He shoved his sword back into its sheath and rushed after Dean.

Had Castiel chosen differently that night, perhaps he would have joined Walker. Perhaps he would have noticed Walker kneeling over the male vampire's body with bloodshot eyes and cold rage in his body. Perhaps Castiel would have noticed the blood on Walker's face, blood that was not his own, drip onto his collarbone and roll down the curve of his shoulder. Perhaps Castiel would have seen Walker shift his shirt back into place, concealing the open wound on his arm. Perhaps. But that was not what Castiel chose.

"That was fun," Dean wheezed. With Castiel's help, Dean sat up against the wall and caught his breath. "Oh, I'm gonna feel that for a while."

"Good improvisation," Castiel said. "Maybe next time you could use your sword."

"What can I say? I'm an innovator." Dean's lopsided grin reassured Castiel that he would be well soon.

"Hey!" Aaron's shout came from inside the cage. "We got a live one!"

Walker snapped back to attention before anyone noticed his distraction. "Winchester. Assist Bass. I will gather the others."

There were no instructions for Castiel, not that he expected any. Walker spent most of his time on the mission treating Castiel as a strange shaped piece of scenery. Everyone set out to complete their tasks. Castiel stayed behind in the dark farmhouse and searched for anything that could be used as kindling. They would need to burn the bodies.

The building lay silent. No birds flapped their wings. No crickets chirped. No footsteps echoed over the rotting wood holding the farmhouse together. Castiel was alone.

"Cas-- Casti-- Castiel."

His whispered name bounced all around him, the voice hoarse, raspy, and undead.

"Castiel. I see you. I always see you."

With slow, careful steps, Castiel returned to the middle of the farmhouse. No one was there. No one but the bodies of the two vampires, together in death.

"Yes. Yes. Do you miss me? Oh, I know you do."

The voice came from two mouths-- the vampires’ mouths. Their heads lay face up and side by side on the dirty, cracked, and broken floorboards.

The heads spoke. "There you are! Come closer now. Let me get a good look at you this time.”

This time? The entity speaking through the vampires seemed to know Castiel. Castiel stepped into view, peering down at the heads. The female vampire’s eyes remained open, horror in her expression.

“My, my. Look at you.” The entity's voice, high and amicable at first, dropped low with disgust. “You’ve aged.”

“Who are you?” Castiel demanded.

The male vampire’s closed eyelids twitched. “Castiel. I’m hurt. How could you not remember me? _Me_? The very one you betrayed? The very one who made sure your treachery would never be repeated. Remember how I did that, Castiel?”

Castiel’s shoulders twitched but he did not let anything show on his face. 

“Metatron.” He made no effort to hide his revulsion.

“ _The_ Metatron, thank you very much. The Voice to the faithful. But we both know you’re not one of those, huh?”

“How can you--”

“I was worried these last few months. Hadn’t seen you through one of my soldiers in _ages._ ” The heads tried to click their tongues, but the sound of it was more of a gasping choke. “But I needn’t have worried. You were busy getting cozy with the humans, weren’t you?”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“Of course! You’re my favourite form of entertainment. I so enjoy watching you suffer.”

The female vampire’s eyes stared back at Castiel. Somehow, someway, the Metatron watched Castiel through those eyes, had watched him through so many others. Castiel shuddered. 

How long? How long had the Metatron watched him fight the Creatures of the Night, squealing in glee from his seat on his unearned throne, every time Castiel had been hurt? He thought he escaped Heaven. He thought he escaped the hateful eyes of his fellow Celestials. The Metatron’s reach was much further than Castiel thought.

“But,” the heads continued, “you’ve become too comfortable lately, too content. The way you looked at those humans like they mattered to you! Disgusting.” A sound rattled in the heads’ throats. It may have been a laugh. “But you’ve given me such a great idea, Castiel. It’s time to shake things up. Get things moving. Ah! I do love writing a good story.”

“Metatron, what are you saying?”

“Now, now, Castiel.” The mouths of the vampires’ heads peeled back, their fangs creating a terrifying smile. “I can’t spoil the plot.”

The vampires’ mouths shut. The heads rolled to the side, no longer held up by whatever magic the Metatron used. Castiel stared at the female vampire’s cold, dead eyes and, no matter how hard he tried, could not make the heads speak again. 

Castiel did not know what the Metatron planned. It would not be good. Nothing the Metatron did was good. He thought back to everything in that conversation and came to a decision. The humans. The Metatron wanted to do something to the humans.

A few moments later, after the survivors' wounds were treated and Garth and Pamela rejoined the group, Dean would enter the farmhouse. He would call out Castiel’s name. He would not receive an answer. 


	9. Let Each One of You Speak the Truth

Over the next month, the Angel Task Force-- as the knights dubbed them-- completed many successful missions. For the entire month, no one heard a single thing about the Angel. No townsfolk told of his recent deeds; no news of his exploits reached the Capital’s gates. The people and the knights appeared unperturbed by the lack of news, as it was known that the Angel often disappeared on long missions. That did not matter to Dean. Dean was worried.

The Captain stood in the threshold of his office, squinting at the setting sun and the young recruit who dared knocked on his door.

“What?” The Captain growled, still annoyed by the news that his favourite cheap whiskey was sold out. There would not be more for another week.

“I--” Dean swallowed, his eyes as bright as the sun behind him. “I have a concern.”

“And you’re coming to me? Don’t you have a knight or someone to bother instead?”

“Walker won’t want to hear this one.” Dean licked his lips. “It’s about Cas.”

The use of the nickname caused the Captain to look closer at the bothersome recruit. The Captain narrowed his eyes and considered Dean for a long moment, taking in his determined stare and confident stance.

“Dean Winchester?” 

Dean shrunk in response to the Captain’s intensity. “Uh, yes?”

The Captain crossed his arms and watched Dean for a little longer, face impassive. In a split second, the Captain’s decision was made.

“Alright,” the Captain said.

“What?”

“Hey, you’re the one who came to me. Get your ass inside. You got five minutes.” 

Captain Singer’s office was small and well-used. Two chairs, separated by a desk covered in maps and handwritten reports, took up most of the space in the room. The top shelf behind the Captain's chair was filled with many different liquor bottles, in varying stages of mostly empty, and the rest with scrolls, books, and bits of old fighting equipment. The handmade rug at Dean’s feet had seen better days, with its many stains and frayed edges. Everyone knew not to touch that rug. It was the last thing made by Captain Singer’s wife. 

The Captain steepled his fingers and leaned over his desk, face expectant. Dean squared his shoulders, sitting tall in his hard backed chair, and tried-- and failed the first few times-- to come up with something to say. He had not expected to make it this far.

“No one seems to care that Cas is gone,” Dean said.

The Captain shrugged. “Far from the first time he’s done it.”

“Yeah. That’s what everyone says but--”

Dean folded his hands in his lap and squeezed them together. He did not have the words for what he wanted to say. He needed to express the feeling, deep in his core that always guided him true, that something was wrong. Castiel left in the middle of the mission. No warrior did that lightly. There was also the fact that-- though Dean would never say it aloud-- Dean did not want to believe Castiel would leave him without saying something first. 

Dean did his best to explain that to the Captain, to tell him that something was wrong, but all the Captain did was raise one eyebrow.

“Kid,” the Captain said, “you’ve been here-- what?-- four, five months? I can’t just send out a search party on a new recruit's gut feeling.”

“Right. Sure.” Dean hunched over in his chair.

“I will say, however, that the reports on my desk about you-- your whole task force, in fact-- have been favourable.” The Captain stroked his beard. “And I do prefer it when my knights trust their instincts and speak their minds. So, keep an eye out and see if anything changes. If it does, report it.”

It was not a complete rejection. Dean grabbed hold of the faint line the Captain cast his way and held it to his heart. 

“Yes, sir,” Dean said. That should have been the end of the conversation, but Dean paused and chose not to leave. “You have reports about me?” 

“I have reports about all our recruits.” The nearby bottle was empty, but the Captain shook it anyway. He sighed and set it back down. When he looked up, Dean’s eyes burned with an unspoken question. “I’ll admit. The name Winchester caught my eye.”

“Did--” Dean licked his lips and shifted in his seat. “Did you know my father?”

“So it is true. You’re John’s son.”

“Depends on what you mean by son. He didn’t raise me.”

“I can see that. You haven’t even threatened to chop my hands off once.” 

“Should I?”

“Depends on how much I piss you off.” The Captain smiled, a strangely natural expression on such a surly man. “Trust me, kid, you're well on your way to being a better man than your father.”

“Really? You figure that out from one conversation?” 

The Captain laughed. Dean grinned. Right there, at that very moment, the Captain looked at that bold, brash recruit and knew he would become a great knight. Right there, at that very moment, those two men began to forge a lifelong bond, one that would not be broken. Neither of them knew that yet, however, so all they did was talk.

⁂

“Speak.”

The werewolf, mouth slack and open at the moment of his death, ignored Castiel’s command. All of the Creatures of the Night ignored Castiel’s commands. The Metatron could be watching him, right now, through the eyes of these Creatures, laughing at him. Castiel would be none the wiser. 

Castiel kicked aside the werewolf and headed back into the forest. Werewolves travelled in packs. He would try again on the next one.

He did not get a chance. As soon as he stepped into the trees, the fallen leaves fell out from under him. In his frustration, he completely missed the net. A rookie mistake, made by children and blundering humans, not the Celestial commander of armies. Yet, there he was, trapped between two trees, watching three sets of glowing eyes stare at him from the shadows. So focused on them, Castiel completely missed the fourth Creature behind him. That was the one who knocked him out.

⁂

“Why? Why would you bring him here? You know all he does is destroy those like us.”

The hood over Castiel’s eyes prevented him from seeing the speaker. He sounded angry and the hiss in his words made Castiel conjure up visions of fangs. Castiel twitched his fingers, feeling the ropes that bound him to a chair. Out of all the ways Castiel expected to die, he did not imagine it would be at the hands of some common Creatures. He always figured it would be humans.

“Hush, Eli. He works with the humans. Maybe he will work with us,” a feminine voice replied.

“The _humans._ The humans want us dead, too.”

“And all they know are our mindless, bloodthirsty brethren. They don’t know about us.”

“He’s the Angel. You know the legend. The Angel will kill us all.”

“No, Eli. It’s ‘the Angel will save us all.’”

Footsteps moved closer to Castiel and a hand ripped the hood from Castiel's head. He sat in a cabin of sorts-- wooden logs made up the structure of the room-- and assessed his captors. The man glared at him from the back of the room, his fangs protruding out from under his lips. Castiel’s sword sat on the table beside him. The woman tossed the hood aside and stood over Castiel. She stared at Castiel, steel in her body but hope in the unnatural glare of her eyes.

“Those stories have been greatly exaggerated,” Castiel said.

Eli scoffed and, looking at him now, Castiel felt his appearance was greatly familiar. He called to mind a younger-looking Benny.

“Hush,” the woman said over her shoulder. She addressed Castiel. “My name is Lenore. We are vampires.”

“I can see that,” Castiel said. He pulled at the ropes but they held tight. For now. “Wasn’t I hunting a pack of werewolves?”

“Yes. We will mourn the loss of one of our own. But first, we must speak with you.”

“One of your own?” Castiel rolled his head back, slowly and carefully assessing his prison. The candles flickered in the light fixture overhead, casting moving shadows all around the small, single-exit room. He continued to work at the ropes. They slackened. 

“Yes,” Lenore said. “We are the Awakened.” 

“Can’t say I’ve heard that one.” Looser. Good.

“He mocks us!” Eli surged forward, stopped by Lenore’s outstretched hand.

“He doesn't understand,” Lenore said. 

The rope came undone in Castiel’s hands. He could fight his way out now. Something stopped him. Something in the eyes of the vampires as they turned together made Castiel wait.

“We are the ones who broke free of the Metatron’s control,” Eli said. He was quiet now, his fire dimmed. He looked tired.

“We are the Awakened,” Lenore said, “and we will speak.” 

⁂

"How long have I existed, Benny?"

"Don't know, chief." Benny refilled Castiel's glass. "Pretty sure you don't know either."

"True." Castiel took a sip and hunched over the bartop. "I remember the Realm being nothing but a huge ocean. I remember the fish emerging from the sea to live on the newly revealed land. I remember the first time humans walked on two legs."

"So," Benny said, "a couple of decades at least."

"You know what I've learned in all that time?"

"What?"

"That I know absolutely nothing."

"Congratulations, chief." Benny reached under the counter and produced a clean glass. He filled it from the same bottle he used for Castiel. "You have officially made it to adulthood." He held his glass out to Castiel.

Castiel cocked his head to the side. "I what?"

"Something my Ma always told me," Benny said. He caught Castiel's confused expression but continued, undeterred, "She said, 'You'll become an adult when you realize that you know nothing at all.' Course, I didn't believe her at the time. She was right. Usually was." He shook the glass at Castiel. "Come on."

They clinked their glasses together and knocked back the liquid. Benny gave Castiel one of his most toothsome smiles, then put his glass away. He grabbed three new mugs, filled them with his cheapest beer, and set them before the stools next to Castiel.

To Castiel's questioning glance, Benny said, "Your fan club's here."

"Mister Castiel! There ya are! We were wondering where ya got off to. We were worried." Garth took the seat closest to Castiel, his smile wide and bright.

"I wasn't." Aaron, arms crossed tight, sat in the furthest seat.

"Oh, get over yourself." Pamela left a playful smack on the back of Aaron's head before she took her seat between Aaron and Garth. "I was there the last time you got wasted, remember?"

Aaron sighed. "Fine. Maybe a little worried. Only a little."

Garth turned towards his companions, taking stock of who sat where, and put a finger to his lips. "Where's Dean?"

"Likely got distracted by something cute and dark haired who could probably kick his ass," Aaron said.

"Sounds like Dean," Garth said.

"Wait." Pamela stared at Aaron. "You pay attention to Dean's type?"

Aaron stared back. "You don't?"

Castiel felt a smile pull at his lips. It must have been more surprised than Castiel to find itself there.

"Alright, y'all. We'll talk to him about it later," Garth said. To Pamela and Aaron's blank stares, Garth elaborated. "About our knight friend."

At those words, all levity left the group. No one wanted to be the first to speak. Pamela and Aaron glanced around the quiet tavern and refused to make eye contact. Garth’s emphatic eyebrow movements towards the other two grew more ridiculous by the second.

On the other side of the bar, serving two new arrivals, Benny cast a furtive look over his shoulder at the scene. Perhaps it was a trick of the light when a patron opened the door and the candles flickered in the wind, but, for a brief moment, his eyes held an unnatural glow.

Castiel thumped his glass against the bartop. His three charges were instantly at attention. Castiel sat up straight and faced them. He kept his eyes on Garth, knowing he would be most likely to speak first. 

“It-- It’s Walker, sir.” Garth’s words came out in a burst. “Ever since our first mission, he’s been weird.” Behind him, the other two nodded.

“Weird?” Castiel prompted.

“Yeah. Like intense? I mean more than usual. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks like he hasn’t slept in years,” Garth said.

“Pretty sure he hasn’t,” Aaron said. “I was leaving my--uh-- friend’s room and he was there, pacing back and forth in front of the library.”

“On our last mission,” Pamela said, “he drove us all to the point of exhaustion but he showed no signs of stopping himself. That’s not from endurance training. That was…” Pamela shivered. “Inhuman.”

“Inhuman?” Castiel asked.

The three exchanged glances.

“Well,” Garth said, “you were the one who taught us the signs.”

“Doesn’t sleep,” Aaron said.

“Bloodshot eyes,” Garth said.

“Never exhausted,” Pamela added. “And he just _feels_ weird.”

“We talked about it today,” Garth said. “We hoped to find Dean here. He always hangs back for extra training.”

“Which reminds me,” Aaron said. “I didn’t see him at the training grounds after I left Ash’s. Figured he finally took a break.”

Looking across at his three students, Castiel admired how they complied all the evidence. His lessons were effective--not that he gave himself any credit-- and Castiel learned to trust the instincts of humans.

“You have told me you believe Gordon Walker is a vampire.” The group winced at Castiel’s words but they all nodded. “And that Dean hasn’t been seen since daylight?”

Pamela reacted first. “Wait. You don’t mean--”

“And you say Walker has been staking out the library." Castiel clenched his jaw and ran through every possible scenario in his mind. "Have any of you seen Sam today?” Blank eyes met Castiel’s question. Castiel called Benny over and asked him the same thing.

“Can’t say I have, chief,” Benny said. The glass in his hand gleamed with how clean it was, but he wiped it again. “He’s always back on time when his brother’s home. Maybe he got delayed?” 

The group turned away from Benny. They missed the way he shifted from foot to foot, a movement in contrast with his calm face. They missed the way his eyes shone in the candlelight.

Castiel stood, a command in his voice as he said, “Let’s move.”

The four left Andrea’s Tavern, full of purpose. They missed the relief on Benny’s face.


	10. End the Realm

The last thing Sam remembered was escorting Jessica back to the maid’s quarters. There was still light in the sky at that time. It certainly was not pitch black.

Laying on a cold stone surface, Sam reached out his arms to find nothing but empty space before him. He sat up and tried in vain to see something in the darkness. There was nothing. Just black.

“It’s a shame, really.”

The deep voice boomed all around Sam. He shot onto his feet and waved his arms in an arc, attempting to locate the source.

“You seem like a decent kid. That’s why I waited so long.”

“Who are you?” Sam tried to sound bold and confident like the heroes he read about in books but, in reality, he was only a scared boy.

“‘Sam Winchester?’ I said, ‘That can’t be right. That kid looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over.’ But who am I to question the word of God?”

“Who?” Sam stepped forward. His hand touched a wall made out of the same stone as the floor. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s amazing, really, what becoming a monster does. Really opens your eyes to what is out there. Like you, for instance.”

“Just tell me what's going on!”

“You, Sam Winchester, are the one who will end the Realm.”

“What?” Sam’s voice was high and reedy. “That’s insane.”

“I thought the same thing. But then He showed me the truth. And I realized that I was the one chosen to stop you.”

The sound of metal on metal made Sam clamp his hands over his ears. He walked along the wall until his foot bumped into some type of structure. Using his hands as his eyes, he figured out it was a wooden shelf. On it was a sword.

“I wanted to give you a fighting chance at least,” said the voice. “Hopefully Dean taught you a few tricks.”

Sam unsheathed the sword and put his back to the wall. The weapon shook in his hands. “Dean. Where is Dean?” 

“He tried to stop me.”

“What did you do to him?”

“I wouldn’t worry about your brother right now, Sammy. I’d worry about you.”

The hiss came from all around.

⁂

Dean groaned and rolled onto his side, seeing iron bars. The first level of the castle dungeon was illuminated by a single torch. He crawled to the bars and rattled them. Locked tight. Dean pressed his face close to the bars, trying to see if anyone was nearby. Nobody. Not a soul down there but him. Walker must have cleared them out. 

After managing to pull himself into a seated position, Dean lifted his shirt to see the wound in his side. He winced when the fabric pulled at the broken edges. Dean followed Walker down to the dungeons when he saw him take Sam. Walker must have known he was being tracked. As soon as the door closed behind Dean, Walker attacked with impossible speed. He struck Dean in the side with a combination of a jagged dagger and sharp fingernails, leaving behind a ragged and bloody wound. Dean had no chance to fight back. 

If Dean made it out of this, he would take Castiel’s lessons about proper armour maintenance more seriously. And he would actually wear it-- even if he was just training.

Dean ripped off his sleeves to fashion a makeshift bandage. He dragged his hands across the floor, searching for something to help him out of his cell. 

Always good with his hands and a penchant for trouble, Dean knew how to pick a lock. He taught himself, in fact, the day he and Victor hid from an angry Kurbrick in the nearest barn. It was not their fault Kurbrick’s apple tree had the sweetest apples around. The apples fell off themselves, in fact, right on to the land. Kubrick's land.

In a stroke of luck, Dean found a piece of wire and shaped it until it fit into the lock. After a few wiggles, the bars swung open. Easy. Far too easy. The castle really should have a more secure dungeon. Any other day, Dean would have worried about that.

Dean hobbled along the wall, holding his wounded side. Walker still had to be in the area which meant Sam was still in danger. The dungeon's second level, created for the purpose of holding and questioning-- often with force-- more dangerous prisoners, was dark, damp, and where Dean was certain Walker took Sam.

He turned the corner toward the entrance of the second level, his wound forcing him to move too slow, and saw his salvation. 

Castiel caught Dean before he fell to the ground. His brow shining with sweat, Dean slumped against Castiel.

“Dean!” Castiel grabbed Dean by the waist. His hand came away wet with blood. “Are you alright?”

“Sam,” Dean said, his voice faint. “Walker’s got Sam. I have to--”

Castiel held onto Dean when he tried to push away. “It’s okay, Dean. We have a plan.”

It was a good thing Castiel still held Dean because, otherwise, Dean would have collapsed. Dean swayed in place and his whole body threatened to topple over. Castiel’s face swirled into an odd array of colours when Dean tried to focus. Dean could not keep upright. Dean’s forehead hit Castiel’s shoulder on the way down. Even in his state, Dean could not help but think it was a nice place to land. 

Castiel secured his hold on Dean and used his free hand to lift Dean’s shirt to see the wound, the makeshift bandages already stained with red. Expending every last bit of energy into remaining conscious, Dean barely registered Castiel’s soft touches.

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel said. “This is not good.”

“Sammy’ll patch it up,” Dean mumbled into Castiel’s shoulder.

“I’m sure he could,” Castiel said, “but you don’t have time for that.”

Dean did not reply. He could see the entrance to the second floor when he peeked over Castiel’s shoulder. He needed to get over there. He needed to get to Sam. It was so far away. The door swirled down, down, down, into an endless hallway.

The bandages fell to the floor. Castiel touched Dean’s wound with the palm of his hand, cool and gentle.

“Remain still,” Castiel whispered against Dean’s ear.

Dean had no choice but to obey Castiel’s command. His limbs no longer responded. It was easier to bury his face into Castiel's shoulder. It was easier to lean into Castiel, his body the only thing keeping Dean from falling.

A short beat of silence passed then a high-pitched whine sounded. With his eyes covered, Dean did not see the glow emulating from Castiel’s palm. He did not see his wound close, remarkably fast. He did, however, notice that he could stand. 

Immediately, Dean lifted his shirt. The blood was still there, on his skin and Castiel’s hand, but the wound was gone. He touched smooth skin with his fingers. When he looked up, Castiel’s eyes were wary.

“What-- How--” Dean could not form a question. A few seconds ago he nearly collapsed from blood loss. Now, he felt he could take on anything.

“Must be a miracle,” Castiel said.   
  
“A what?”

“Is this really important right now?” Castiel gripped Dean’s arm. “We need to help Sam.”

Castiel opened the door to the second floor.

⁂

Sam slashed his sword into empty air. His eyes darted from side to side, but there was nothing to see but black.

“Really, Sammy.” The voice was directly in front of him. “It’s like you’re not even trying.”

“Don’t.” Sam surged forward, leading with his sword. “Call me.” His sword hit something. Something made of flesh. “Sammy.”

His attacker hissed, the sound fading as he backed away. Sam pursued it, knowing he needed to follow up on his attack while he held the advantage. 

The hand over Sam’s mouth stifled his scream when someone grabbed him from behind. Sam thrashed in the hold, trying to free himself. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Sam. It’s okay. I got ya.” 

Sam relaxed at the new voice. Garth. If Garth was nearby, that meant help was here. Sam let Garth lead him to one corner of the room. 

“Wait here,” Garth said. “Keep your eyes closed.”

Garth left. Sam tightened his grip on his sword, ready for anything. 

“Walker!” Pamela shouted from the far side of the room. “Come on over! My blood is way better than some kid. It'll make you see the future!”

“Walker!” Aaron yelled from somewhere not far from Sam. “Don’t listen to her. I got fancy legacy blood. Delicious!”

“Walker!” Garth's voice rang out from the opposite corner from Sam. “I don’t got no fancy blood. But I do have this!”

An item hit the floor with an echoing clang. It burst open and the room lit up with bright alchemical fire. Sam’s eyes seared with pain, even with his palms pressed tight against his face.

“Walker!” 

Dean. Sam tried to squint through the haze. All he could make out were a few shadowy figures amongst blue light. 

“No way,” Walker said. “You should be bleeding out by now.”

“Things change,” said Castiel.

A chuckle erupted from Walker’s throat. “Angel. Castiel. Oh, I know so much about you now. I always knew you were an abomination. Almost as bad as Sam.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean demanded.

“Sam Winchester will end the Realm. When the Realm’s era comes to a close, let it be known I tried to stop it. Let it be known you were the ones who destroyed it.”

Sam squinted. He could see the three bodies in the middle of the room. Walker kneeled. Standing before him, Dean's sword shook in his hands. Castiel was behind Walker, his sword gleaming, poised in the best position to sever Walker’s head with one strike. 

“You speak nonsense,” Castiel said.

Walker laughed and rolled his head back to see Castiel. “You are no longer one of God’s chosen, Castiel. But I am. He has shown me so much.”

“God?” It was Castiel's turn to laugh. “The All-Father hasn’t been seen in millennia. No. You are hearing the ravings of a power-mad fool.”

“Why should I listen to the lies of a traitor?” Walker turned to Dean, his inhuman eyes reflecting the light. “How much do you really know about this abomination? How much can you trust him? Look what he did to your wound. Can you be sure that’s all he did?”

Dean raised his sword but faltered when it came time to strike. Walker smiled, his fangs shining in the light. 

“Shut up,” Dean said through clenched teeth.

Castiel squared his stance and glanced at Dean. At Dean’s nod, Castiel swung his sword. Walker’s head fell to the floor. His body soon followed. Dean and Castiel stared at each other over the newly created gap. Not one person moved. Not one person spoke. The silence stretched onward, threatening to snap like an overburdened tree branch.

“Wow-ee,” Garth said. Either he was oblivious to the tension in the room or he chose to ignore it. “What a crazy night.”

That broke the spell. Dean tore his gaze away from Castiel, leaving the others to clean up, and ran to Sam. It was more of a tackle than a hug, but Sam gladly returned it.

“Sammy! Are you okay?” Dean held Sam at arm's length, giving him a once over. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. Little shaken,” Sam said. He spotted the stain on Dean’s shirt. “What about you?”

“Oh. I’m--” Dean put his hand against the stain. He pursed his lips. “I’m fine.” Dean did not give Sam time to respond. He reached out his hand and pulled Sam up to his feet. “He had a pretty nasty cut on his shoulder. I take it that was you?”

“I learned it from watching you.”

“That’s my boy.” 

Arms around each other’s shoulders, Sam and Dean walked out of the room. Dean stopped briefly to tell Pamela that they were headed home. Dean waved goodbye. He never looked at Castiel.


	11. The Best Way to Find Out If You Can Trust Somebody Is to Trust Them

After everything with Walker settled, the Angel Task Force returned to their studies. Dean attended each lesson, as he always did, but he could not shake the unease he felt. He constantly checked the place his wound had been, expecting a growth or something equally horrifying, but he only found healthy skin. He was quiet in class and skipped his reading lessons. Castiel let him.

However, Dean continued to read. As part of his studies, Sam kept the book about Celestials on his bedside table. When Dean had a spare, private moment-- as rare as they were, especially after he started teaching Sam to defend himself-- he would seek meaning in the spiky letters on the page. They were harder to read than Castiel's careful letters but Dean's determined stubbornness made him persevere. Frustration happened, of course, but Dean never gave up.

A passage near the end of the book mentioned the meaning of the word 'Angel.' Dean found it after skipping ahead when he could not decipher the previous three chapters. According to the paragraph, there was one person named Yousha-- or Joshua, the writing was cramped on the page-- who travelled the Realm helping humans and healing their ills. A small group, far away from the Capital, worshiped this Yousha as their saviour. 

They called him the Angel.

Dean spent days with that paragraph, trying to find more about this Angel and trying to figure out more about this healing. He searched and searched, but found nothing else.

Dean did not ask Sam for help, even though he would be well equipped to further Dean's research. Dean never told Sam about his wound-- about what Castiel did-- because he knew it would only worry Sam. It would worry Sam because, more and more each day, Dean thought about how he should have died. If Castiel had not been there, the Winchesters would not have survived.

That realization spurred Dean into action. As night began to fall, Dean tucked the book under his arm, left a message for Sam with Benny since he was on yet another date with Jessica, and marched to the castle. The bitter wind which burned Dean's cheeks meant that winter was well on its way.

The Angel did not have just a room in the castle. He had an entire wing. The guard on duty ushered him though, calling Dean "one of the strays." Dean did not know what that meant, but it made things easy for him so he chose not to complain. 

Dean walked down the hallway and realized the wing was bigger than Kubrick's and the Henderickson’s farms combined. All the doors in the Angel's wing were wide open; every room Dean passed was filled with bedrolls and blankets. On closer inspection, Dean saw people sleeping in those rooms, people Dean recognized from passing them on the streets on his way to and from the castle. These were the people without homes. 

Dean continued down the hallway, his steps light. At the end of the hall, Dean found Castiel’s room. Flames crackled in the fireplace, filling the room with warm light. It was simply furnished, with a bed that looked like it was rarely used on one side, an unadorned desk on the other, and a large shelf full of books and papers in the middle. The golden armour in the corner was covered in dust. 

No one was home. Dean took one step into the room, not daring to move any further, and saw the mess on Castiel’s desk. It was covered in scribbled notes and haphazard stacks of books, all of them about the Realm’s geography. Dean recognized some of the information from their last lecture. Castiel had to study as much as his students, if not more.

“How’d you convince them to let in all those people?” The Captain’s voice sounded from down the hall, closer with each word.

“I didn’t ask,” Castiel said. Captain’s Singer’s laugh was genuine. “No one person needs this many rooms.”

“I think the king would disagree with that.” 

“Let him.” The voices stopped advancing. Dean strained to hear Castiel’s next words. “What was so urgent that you couldn’t wait until morning?”

Captain Singer’s voice was just as soft. “The knights on the field sent word this morning. The enemies’ numbers are higher than predicted. They are in danger of being overrun by the zombies. But if they retreat, we lose our stronghold in the mountains.”

“I see,” Castiel said. “What is your first instinct?”

“To defend the stronghold at all costs.” The Captain sighed. “But I’m so tired of sending soldiers to their deaths. I hoped you had a better option.”

Not even the fire made a sound in the wake of Captain Singer’s words. Castiel remained silent for a long moment.

“That stronghold is the last line of defence before the Capital, yes?” The Captain must have nodded because Castiel continued, “Then the line must be held until reinforcements arrive.”

“It will take days,” Captain Singer said.

“I know,” Castiel said, “I’m sorry I--”

The mountain stronghold. Dean learned about it in a lesson. In fact, the books on Castiel’s desk talked about it. He stepped into the room and set the book about Celestials on the chair. He grabbed the topmost book from the closest stack on the desk and leafed through it, hoping to find the answer.

“Right,” the Captain said. “I’ll send the order.”

“I’m sorry, Bobby,” Castiel said. “I know you hoped for better.”

Slow, heavy footsteps plodded back down the hallway and Dean's heart beat faster. He grabbed the next book and opened it at random. There. That was it.

“Wait!” Dean shouted.

He ran out of the room, book in hand, and turned the corner. The Captain stared at him in open-mouthed shock but Castiel regarded him with his usual squint. 

“What are you--” The Captain cut off in response to Castiel’s outstretched finger, telling him to wait.

“Yes?” Castiel asked, his eyes on Dean.

Dean shoved the book into Castiel’s hands, pointing out a passage under an illustrated map. “Look.”

The Captain loomed over Castiel’s shoulder, his lips lost behind his beard and his eyes dark. “At what?”

“Explosives?” Castiel glanced at the Captain. “You store explosives in the stronghold?”

“Yes because the mines are near--” The Captain glanced up at Dean. “The mines are nearby.”

“Exactly!” Dean said. “Zombies will follow any warm blood. Lead ‘em to the mines and then kaboom!” 

The Captain ran a finger over the edge of the map. “The closed areas are here and the way out is--” He looked at Dean in astonishment. “It just might work.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, handing the book to the Captain, “well done.”

Dean was grateful for how dark it was in the hallway because his cheeks burned as hot as the fire in Castiel’s room. “It’s-- It’s nothing. You’re the one who taught me.”

Castiel beamed at him and Dean was not in the least bit prepared for the force of it.

“Alright,” the Captain said, “I need to get this message out right away. If this works, Dean, you’ll be on the fast track for sure.” He started down the hallway. “Oh. And I’ll overlook why you were lurking around the corner so late at night. Just this once.” He clicked his tongue and hurried away.

As soon as the Captain rounded the corner, Castiel faced Dean. He appeared expectant but unworried. Dean lost the anger that drove him here after seeing the pride, the relief, the smile on Castiel's face after Dean solved the Captain's problem.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said.

“You, ah--” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

Castiel shrugged. “This month has been filled with many revelations.”

“It what?”

Castiel indicated the end of the hallway. “I trust you found my room. Shall we?” 

Dean trailed behind Castiel. He hovered in the doorway, crossed his arms, uncrossed them, then crossed them again. Unbothered, Castiel entered the room and sat on the foot of his bed with a sigh. He waited but, when it was clear that Dean would not move, Castiel spoke.

“I assume you have questions.” Castiel indicated the chair, where the book Dean brought still lay. “Feel free to take a seat.”

Dean sat, hugging the book to his chest. “I, um--”

He had so many things he wanted to say. He had made so many plans. He had so many scenarios in his mind for how this moment would play out. None of them--none of them-- involved Castiel looking at him so calmly, so softly, so concerned.

“How’s your side?” Castiel asked.

Dean’s hand automatically pressed against his non-existent wound. “Fine. Better than fine, really.”

“Good.” Castiel's shoulders lost some of their tension. “I feared I may have been out of practice.” 

“You--”

“You’ve been reading,” Castiel said, pride in his voice. He nodded toward the book. “Tell me: what did you find?”

Dean dropped the book into his lap. The bird man’s hard-eyed stare from the cover was in great contrast to Castiel’s expression. Dean flipped the book over.

“Cas,” Dean began, “are you Yousha?”

Out of all the possible reactions Dean thought that question would bring, he did not expect Castiel to laugh. It reminded him of that conversation on the roof, back when he first came to the Capital. This time, however, Dean was pretty sure Castiel was sober.

“Oh, Dean. That’s just--” Castiel took a deep breath, fighting to regain his composure. “Sorry. No, no. Definitely not.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, first of all, Joshua-- as he prefers to be called these days-- is the Son of God. The last known born Celestial. And, secondly, he’s an old man.”

“I thought Celestials were ageless.”

“Ah, yes, well, that’s not entirely true.” Castiel lost his short-lived mirth. He studied Dean, chewing his bottom lip as he thought. “Joshua lived among the humans for many years. He healed the sick. He gave to the poor. There’s a small sect in the north who worship him.”

“And that’s where the title of Angel comes from?”

“Um, yes.” Castiel stared down at his hands, his fingers bunched up in the fabric of his pants. “I encountered them when I first came to the Realm. I healed their sick in thanks for taking me in. They thought I was Joshua in a new form. They refused to believe me when I said I was not.” Castiel picked at a loose thread near his knee. “I am not worthy of the title in the least.”

The last part was muttered, not meant to be spoken aloud, but Dean asked all the same, “Why not?”

Castiel met Dean's gaze and, with no hesitation, said, “Because I’m a coward. Joshua performed miracles for years. He nearly died for it. He only stopped because his hair turned white, his back began to hunch, and his mind began to deteriorate. The All-Father brought him home after a job well done. He tends to the Garden now. As far as I can tell, he’s happy.” Castiel closed his eyes, his mind full of fond memories. “He always has a good story to tell.”

“Hold on.” Dean tapped his fingers on the book, the sound they made hollow. “How is he an old man?”

Castiel became still, inhumanly so, and watched Dean with wide, unblinking eyes. Dean was about to speak again, to see if Castiel was still on the Realm with him, when Castiel finally said, “It’s our curse.”

“What do you mean?”

“Celestials are made from God’s light. His Flame of Creation is what keeps us alive. But, the further we stray from that light, from Heaven, and the closer we are to the humans, the more we age.”

“Hold on. Does that mean--?”

“Yes. It means I will grow old, though at a much slower rate than all of you. That is unless I--”

Dean waited for the conclusion to that sentence, but it never came. Castiel stared into the middle distance, an unreadable expression on his face. Dean could not guess what he was thinking. 

Dean waited a long while before he prompted, “Unless what?”

Conflict flashed across Castiel’s face when he reacted to Dean’s words. He took a deep breath. “When it was discovered that I, a warrior, could heal, the Host rejoiced. Celestials can still be struck down by swords, you see. My abilities allowed us to turn the tides of many battles. I moved through the ranks quickly as a result and soon I was in charge of the army.”

“So not all Celestials can heal.”

“No. I was the only one after Joshua, as far as I know. They called me blessed. They said I was chosen by God. They told me to use my ‘gift’ in service to the army.” Castiel rolled his eyes. “And I believed them for years, but my so-called gift came with a price.” 

Dean started to connect the dots but he asked anyway, “Which was?”

Castiel placed a finger against his temple and ran it over the lines at the edges of his eyes to the dark circles underneath. “I aged. Every time I healed, under their orders, I lost years of my life. Celestials fear mortality and I disgusted them. It did not stop them from using my healing, however.”

“Wait.” Dean pressed his hand against the smooth skin on his side. “That means--”

“What I did for you was _my_ choice. _My_ will.” Castiel’s tone made it clear he would hear no protests and no arguments. 

“And that’s how Joshua got old?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “That never deterred him. I, however, prefer people to not know of it.”

Dean leaned forward, curling his fingers around the book, and tried to digest this new information. Castiel healed him. Castiel gave up part of his life for him. Dean tried to process that fact. He tried to process the fact that Castiel put himself at risk to help Dean. 

Castiel put himself at risk to tell him all this information. If word got out about Castiel’s ability, humans would flock to him from the entire Realm. There were so many sick humans out there, so many people in need of aid, and Dean knew, without a doubt, that Castiel would help every one of them if they asked.

“That doesn’t make you a coward, Cas.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The longer you survive, the more monsters you fight, the more humans can live, right?”

“I suppose.”

“And, well, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to live. I mean, everything we humans do is to survive.” Dean raised an eyebrow and gave Castiel one of his best grins. “Maybe we taught you something, too.” 

Castiel’s smile was subdued, but it was there. “More than you know.”

“You saved my life. I realize that now. You saved Sam.” Dean shrugged. “I mean, I was a little freaked out at first, but I can’t deny that.”

Castiel leaned over his steepled fingers. “A little?”

“Fine. Maybe more than a little.” Dean stood. “I needed some time to get used to it, is all.” He stretched his arms over his head, yawning wide. “I should probably head back. I have a reading lesson to attend tomorrow, after all.”

“It seems you’ve been keeping up on your own.”

“Yeah but it goes faster when you have a good teacher.” Dean reached the doorway, book under his arm. He paused and faced Castiel, his next words serious. “Don’t worry. Your secret's safe with me.”

Castiel nodded. “I trust you.”

He said it so sincerely, so easily that Dean ducked his head to hide the colour in his cheeks. He convinced himself it was from the heat of the fire and nothing else. That heat kept him warm all the way back to the tavern, even as the first snowfall of the year fell onto his uncovered head.

⁂

Moving to the Capital was the greatest thing that had ever happened to Sam. He passed his days in intellectual pursuits, trained to become a healer, spent his free moments walking arm in arm with Jessica and, by his measurement, had grown a few more inches over the last season. The incident with Walker over, Sam now had the means to defend himself due to his regular fighting lessons with Dean and he had been given more freedom, as he proved he could take care of himself as needed.

Life was good.

“What?” Jessica asked, her eyes sparkling as she came to a stop in front of the maid’s quarters.

“Nothing. Just--” Sam stroked his chin. “It’s been a good year.”

Jessica smiled. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose glowed red with cold, even with her wool hat pulled low over her face. Sam put his hands over her cheeks, trying to bring some warmth back to her skin.

She jumped. “What-- what are you--"

“You’re really beautiful, you know that?”

Jessica stilled. She looked up at Sam, her eyes wide and shining. Sam glanced at the path around them, making sure they were alone and, for the first time, he kissed her. She was soft and warm and sweeter than he ever could have known. 

When he pulled back, Jessica pressed her hand to her lips. It did nothing to hide her radiant smile. “What was that?”

Sam shrugged. He knew his smile was as bright as hers. “See you tomorrow?”

Jessica watched him walk away. She did not enter the building until Sam was out of sight.

The night was young, so Sam took the long way home. He whistled-- completely tuneless but he did not care-- as he walked the empty streets of the Capital. By the time he reached Andrea’s Tavern, the stars were high in the sky. 

“Oh, Sammy,” a voice said as he came out of the back alley. “Did you forget all about little old me?”

Sam stopped in his tracks. In the middle of the empty alleyway behind the tavern stood Ruby, her hands on her hips and a pout on her lips.

“Ah, young love,” she said, closing the distance between her and Sam, her shoes clicking against the cobblestones. “So cute. So _distracting._ ” Ruby placed her hand on Sam’s forearm, the touch hot through his layers of clothes. “Alright. You’ve had your fun. It’s time for you to return to your studies.”

Despite her light attire, Ruby never shivered in the cold. She reached into the folds of her cloak and produced a vial filled with a red substance. She held it out to Sam. 

“That’s--” Sam took the vial and stared at it in the palm of his hand. “Is that--”

“Sanguis.” Ruby finished the thought for him. “I assume you got that far, at least.”

“Yes. I--” Sam looked up. “What do I do with it?”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Seriously? You’ve been slacking.” 

She was disappointed with him. Sam did not like disappointing Ruby. He much preferred it when she smiled.

“You’re right,” Sam said. “I have. Let me make it up to you.” 

Ruby’s answering smile held all the dark secrets in the cosmos. Sam wanted to hear them all.


	12. The Calm Before

Dean’s twentieth year arrived and he was alone. He never told anyone about the significance of the day, so he did not expect anything from his fellow Task Force members. He shuddered to think about what Garth would have planned. Sam, distracted by his work and Jessica, never said anything about it on their way to the castle that morning. Dean did not expect anything. 

Yet, he found himself thinking about Lawrence that morning. He thought about how Ellen would barge into his and Sam’s room and sing that stupid song at the top of her lungs over and over again until Sam and Jo would join in. He thought about how the townspeople would each save a part of their harvest and give it to Ellen to hold onto for this day. He thought about Missouri's homemade pie, bursting with filling from the best apples, made especially for him. 

Dean did not expect anything but, when he woke up in a quiet room, Dean missed home.

After the day's training, Dean charmed two steaming mugs of apple cider from the cooks at the dining hall. With them, he made his way to the stables, careful not to spill a drop as he moved, and found exactly who he hoped to see.

Castiel looked up from brushing Seraph, his slight smile warm. “Dean. I believe your stable duty is next week.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean held out a mug, still steaming, to Castiel. “Thought you might be cold. Wanna join me?” 

Once he completed his task, Castiel followed Dean to the castle gardens. Not many people lingered. The castle residents and workers hurried between buildings, eager to escape the frigid cold. Dean and Castiel sat on a bench that overlooked the frozen pond. The trees had long since lost their leaves and the grass was hidden by a thick blanket of white snow. Dean handed Castiel a mug, who sipped the liquid within thoughtfully. 

“This is…” Castiel took another sip. “Apples? But hot?”

“You’ve never had apple cider?" Dean asked. "We would drink it all the time back home to keep warm.”

Castiel closed his eyes and breathed in the steam. “It’s lovely. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

Dean cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his head. “Don’t mention it.” 

They leaned back against the bench. Winter had a way of making things quiet. Dean sipped his drink, thankful for its warmth. He glanced over at Castiel from the corner of his eye. Castiel must have been cold-- he never closed his cloak-- but he appeared unbothered. He fixed his gaze on the horizon, lost in thought, and Dean enjoyed the warmth of his company as much, if not more, than the drink.

Eventually, the quiet moment ended. Dean slipped Castiel’s empty mug from his fingers and set it aside.

The gesture broke Castiel's reverie. “What’s on your mind?”

“Just missing home, I guess.” Dean, caught off guard by Castiel's question, answered more honestly than intended, “It’s my day of birth.”

Castiel clasped Dean’s shoulder. “And may you have many more.” In response to Dean’s blank look, Castiel tilted his head. “Was that the incorrect saying? I thought I had it right.”

“Oh, no. You got it.” Dean could not tell Castiel that his response was delayed because, in the light reflected off the snow all around them, Castiel’s eyes were-- and this surprised Dean every time-- blue. How frustrating for Dean. “I was thinking about the people back home. That’s all.”

Castiel turned his body toward Dean. “Tell me about them.”

Dean did. He told him about Ellen and Jo. He told him about Missouri. He told him about Victor. He even told him a little about Robin and a lot about Kurbrick. Castiel reacted wonderfully to his stories and Dean told him everything that came to mind. He spent the rest of the evening speaking about his home and, for the first time that day, Dean did not feel so alone.

⁂

Winter slowed the Creatures of the Night. Castiel did not spend as much time fighting which meant he had little opportunity to pursue the Metatron. The soldiers, the knights, and the recruits were thankful for the quiet season but Castiel could not rest. He did not forget about everything he learned that autumn.

Castiel answered the Captain's call right away, even at such an early hour. The Captain opened the door to his office as soon as Castiel arrived. Castiel did not need to knock.

"Captain Singer," Castiel said, observing the Captain's tired eyes and wild hair.

"It's just us, Cas. Don't need to be formal."

The Captain ushered Castiel into the room, shutting the door behind him to keep the wind at bay. There was no fireplace in the Captain's office. Captain Singer wrapped an old blanket over his shoulders, his breath clouding with each exhale. 

"Alright," the Captain said, shuffling the papers on his desk. The mess must have made sense to him, as he fished out a short strip of paper from the middle of the stack. "That Winchester kid's plan worked. They managed to hold off the zombies until reinforcements arrived. We only lost three soldiers in the mines."

"That's excellent news," Castiel said. The Captain's hard stare did not change. "You appear displeased."

"I'm pleased about the battle but…" Captain Singer sifted through the papers, picking three longer pages seemingly at random. "The battle reports are weird."

"Weird?"

"Yeah. Weird. That's what I said." The Captain read from the pages in his hands. "The scouts claimed that a 'huge horde' approached the fortresses but, when the bait led them to the mines, half of that horde remained behind. That part did not move closer or join the battle. They only watched. When the explosion happened all they did was turn around. They left without fighting." He pushed the papers toward Castiel. "Now, I'm no expert compared to you, but in all my years I have never met a zombie that didn't go after the closest source of warm flesh."

Castiel scanned the report. A passage caught his eye: 'They observed us. It was as if they wanted to see our strategies, stronghold, and battle prowess.' The report went on, claiming that the writer knew that sounded strange since he knew zombies were not capable of complex thought.

But the Metatron was.

"Something must have changed," Castiel muttered.

"Changed? What are you talking about?" 

Castiel blinked and raised his head at the sharp tone. He kept his face blank. Unlike most people, the Captain never looked away. He held Castiel's stare, his face dark and shrewd. 

"You know more than you let on," Captain Singer said. It was not a question. "And I've respected that. And I respect you. However, if whatever it is you're keeping from me starts to affect my people, my _home_ , then we will have a problem."

Castiel looked away. He knew he had to make a choice but there was more at stake than one town, one army, one friendship. To tell the Captain the truth about the Metatron, about the Celestials, and about the Creatures of the Night, would be to put humanity as a whole in danger. 

"I am not officially part of your army," Castiel said.

"I know. That's why I haven't ordered you to tell me."

"And I respect that." Castiel handed the report back to the Captain. "I will advise you to keep your eye on the Creatures. Fortify your city. Do not become complacent in the cold."

"Castiel." The commanding tone made Castiel look into the Captain's eye. "Are you implying the Capital may be in danger?"

"I don't know. But…" Castiel sighed and leaned back, trying to find the right words that would reveal enough but not too much. "I have reason to believe that something is coming down the line."

The silence which followed stretched long and cold. Castiel never felt winter's chill as strongly as the humans but, on that day, he understood what the humans meant when they complained of frozen bones.

"I see," the Captain said without a change in expression. "I will take that under advisement." He set the stack of papers aside and leaned forward, his long held stare hard. He took a deep breath and the blanket slipped down his shoulders as he released the tension in his body. His next words were friendly. "So, it seems you've made quite an impression on your students."

Castiel blinked. He was busy thinking about the past season, thinking about everything he learned and about everything that could go wrong. 

"I'm sorry?" Castiel asked.

"Specifically that Winchester kid," Captain Singer said, "and, if one believes the rumours, he's made an impression on you."

"I don't understand."

“You know,” the Captain said, “I believe you don’t.” Before Castiel could reply with more confusion, Captain Singer continued. “Anyway, we’re short one knight-- I’m sure you can remember why-- and I think Dean Winchester could fit that role quite well.”

“He could,” Castiel said. “I’m not the one who makes that decision, however.”

“That’s alright. I know who does.” The Captain grinned but Castiel knew the Captian was still watching Castiel, still assessing him. 

“Is there anything else you wish of me?” Castiel asked. 

“Oh, plenty.” Captain Singer reached under his desk and produced a bottle of whiskey. “But that’s all for today.”

Castiel nodded and stood, eager to leave the room. As he opened the door, the Captain spoke to his retreating form.

“You damn well better be here when everything comes crashing down.”

Castiel shut the door. 

⁂

No one could see Sam like this. Sam could not keep living like this. He told Dean he stayed behind to spend time with Jessica. He told Jessica he needed to return home early with Dean. He could barely make it through a day of his studies without something going wrong. 

Earlier, using only his mind, Sam launched a book at another initiate after thinking she needed to shut up. He hurt her-- a small bruise but it was still harm-- with a half-formed thought. 

It scared Sam. His heart beat fast. He hardly slept. His mind opened, reaching its full potential, and all his peers moved so slow. He was changing, he could feel it in his blood, and he did not know what he would become. 

It scared Sam, but he did not intend to stop. Ruby came by every week. Every week Sam would drink the sanguis. Every week Sam would become more powerful, more in control, more intelligent. At least, he did before Ruby disappeared.

More than two weeks had passed since Sam's last dosage and his powers became weaker and unpredictable. He could not focus and could not control what his mind did. The incident with the initiate sent him wandering through the castle grounds after dark, avoiding any people who crossed his path.

It should have been cold in the dead of winter but Sam felt as if he were burning. He stripped off his cloak and dropped into a pile of snow. It melted all around him.

He needed more. More sanguis and all these awful feelings would go away. More of it and he would be in control again. 

But Ruby had the only source. 

“Whoa, dude, are you oka-- Wait. Sam?”

Sam never heard anyone approach. He fought the hands that grabbed his shoulders and pulled him out of the snow but it was no use. Ash was used to combative patients. Ash wrapped the discarded cloak around Sam’s shoulders and, after an evaluative stare, dragged Sam behind him and into his tent. They never encountered anyone along the way.

Ash shoved Sam onto the patient’s cot, piled high with warm blankets, and dug in the bags underneath his supply table. With a triumphant noise, he produced a waterskin and a small capsule. He held them both out to Sam.

“Take it,” Ash said.

Sam did not recognize the medicine. He leaned away from Ash. 

“It’s something I’ve been working on,” Ash said. “Makes the comedown easier. Don’t worry. I’ve tested it on myself.”

Sam took the capsule and used the water to wash it down. Once he did so, he curled up in the bed and made himself as small as possible. 

“Not that I’m the one to judge,” Ash said, sitting down on the bedroll on the opposite side from Sam, “but maybe you shouldn’t use the hard stuff while you’re still growing.”

Sam wrapped his arms around his legs, trying to hold himself together. “Wasn’t drugs.”

“Oh really?” Ash raised an eyebrow. “So, the huge pupils, the fact you’ve been wandering the grounds all night for, like, a week straight, and the attempt to give yourself hypothermia is totally normal Sam behaviour?”

“I-- It’s not--” Sam was tired. He lay on his side and pulled the blankets over his body. “You’ve been watching me?”

“Well yeah, dude. I’m a professional. Here’s some free professional advice: stop taking whatever this shit is and run away from whoever gave it to you.” Ash walked over to Sam and placed a cool hand on his forehead. “I mean, I’m all about a good time. But this?” 

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, don’t bullshit me, kiddo.” Ash adjusted Sam’s blankets. “Okay, looks like it’s working.” Ash’s face swam before Sam’s half-opened eyes but he could see Ash’s concern. “Does your brother know where you are?”

That made Sam’s eyes open all the way. He shot out of bed. “Don’t tell Dean. Don’t tell him!”

Ash pushed Sam back onto the cot. “So, where does he think you are?”

“I told him I’d be with Jess.”

“Right. And, after, you realized how cold it was and stayed the night here to keep warm, yeah?”

“Ash. Thank--”

“Don’t. I shouldn’t cover for you. I should be dragging you back to your brother.” Ash blew out the candle on the supply table and settled into his bedroll. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Sam made a cocoon out of the blankets. He felt the cold now. He felt his heart slow. He felt his limbs become heavy and his mind clear. Next time, he would be careful. Next time, once he saw Ruby, he would make his supply last. Next time, he would not let himself lose control. Those thoughts comforted him as he drifted to sleep. Not once did he consider giving up the sanguis.

⁂

Andrea’s Tavern was packed on cold nights. The roaring fire and many bodies kept the building warm and the flowing alcohol made people forget the cold on the way home. Dean struggled to enter the tavern. He battled a group of drunks to earn a place at the bar and pressed his hip against the wood to stake his claim. The man beside him wobbled in his stool. 

Somewhere between taking payment with one hand, handing out a drink with the other, and calling over his shoulder to Jamie about clean glasses, Benny noticed Dean. Benny was waylaid by a few more patrons on his way to the other end of the bar but he made it close enough to speak.

“Hey, brother,” Benny said, as calm as always. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing yet,” Dean shouted to be heard over the crowd. He glanced around the tavern but the sea of people did not contain who he wanted to find. “Have you seen Sam?” 

Benny thought for a moment, refilling the glass of the man beside him and accepting his coin without taking his eyes off Dean. “Can’t say I have. Though it's been pretty busy tonight. Might’ve missed him.”

“Right.” Dean tapped the bartop and scanned the crowd one last time. “Thanks anyway.”

“Everything alright?” Benny asked before Dean could slip away.

“I don’t know.”

After the Walker incident, Dean’s first instinct was to lock Sam in a room and never let him leave. He almost did. However, Sam proved himself to Dean, showed that he could defend himself if the need arose, and Dean knew that Sam took care of himself while Dean was away on missions. So, Dean loosened his grip and slackened his rules because Sam grew up when Dean was not looking. It was terrifying. 

For a while, it worked. Sam thrived. He found fulfilling work. He learned more and more each day. He was in love. His face when he told Dean about Jessica was as adorable as it was disgusting. The autumn had been good to the Winchesters. 

Then winter arrived. The season started well but, over the last month, Dean saw something change in Sam. Sam stayed out late every night, he never joined Dean in the dining hall, and, in the brief time Dean saw him, he appeared tired. At first, Dean thought Sam had been staying up late with Jessica. Today, however, Dean sought her out. Jessica had not seen Sam in over a month. 

Benny clicked his tongue. “Well, I’ll let you know if I see him.”

Dean nodded and squeezed through the cluster behind him, full of people holding up money and shouting demands. He climbed the stairs and entered his empty room. 

Sam’s bedsheets were still tucked neatly into the bed from the last time Dean fixed them. Sam never made his bed. When Dean walked into the empty room, he could not ignore the uneasy feeling, deep down in his gut, that told him something was wrong. 

The building was too loud and too crowded for Dean to think. He added an extra layer under his cloak and headed to the roof. When the cold air scraped across his cheeks, Dean second guessed his plan. The quiet when he shut the door behind him made the risk of frostbite worth it. 

Avoiding the icy patches, Dean planted his feet in front of the chimney, right where he sat with Castiel at the start of summer. Standing there again, after months of training and hard work, Dean felt older. Perhaps he was wiser as well but Dean did not feel that at the time. The only other thing he felt at that moment was worry.

“Where have you been?”

Sam’s voice came from behind Dean. His whisper carried through the silent streets. Dean jumped at the disturbance, his foot catching on a patch of ice. Snow fell to the ground as he righted himself but Sam did not notice Dean.

“What?” The other voice belonged to a woman, a woman Dean did not recognize. “I have things to do, you know.”

“It’s been weeks and I--”

Ruby shushed him. “Hey, hey it’s okay, Sammy. You can have it.”

More words followed but Dean could not hear them over the sound of blood in his ears. The Dean of a few months ago would have rushed to the other side of the roof. That Dean would have sent snow and ice flying over the edge of the building, revealing himself. That Dean would have learned nothing. 

This Dean took his time. He crept to the other side, stepping carefully to avoid disturbing the fallen snow.

"Better?" Ruby asked.

"You never answered my question," Sam said, his voice stronger, deeper, more assured.

"Come on! We've talked about this. A lot is happening out there. I take care of it and you can continue towards your destiny."

"Which is what, exactly? What's going on here, Ruby?"

Dean reached the other side, his feet precariously perched beside a patch of ice. Not ideal, but it was the best place Dean could stay hidden and see what was happening below him.

"Let me worry about that," Ruby said. "You keep up with your studies."

Ruby’s back was pressed against the brick wall in the back alley. Sam held her by the shoulders. She stared Sam in the eye, chin held high. 

“I--I can’t keep doing this,” Sam said. “I’m lying to Jess. I’m lying to _Dean_. I-- I can’t--”

Ruby made a soft sound, then curled one hand around the back of Sam’s neck, pulling him closer. “And they will forgive you once you saved them all.”

Sam rested his head on Ruby’s shoulder. Ruby looked up, focused on the tavern’s roof, and smirked.

There was no way. It was a coincidence. She could not have seen Dean. It was too dark. He was too hidden. Yet, for one heart-stopping second, Ruby met Dean's eyes. 

Dean felt sick. He returned to his room, his breaths coming shallow and fast, and tucked himself into bed. He lay in the darkness, forcing himself to calm down. Something was wrong. Dean could feel it. That woman had no business saying things like that to his brother. She had no business touching Sam. A grown woman and his baby brother should never interact like that.

When Sam finally entered the room himself, over an hour later, he had no idea that Dean was awake. Sam had no idea that his brother listened to his every footstep, every breath, as he settled into bed. Sam had no idea that dread seeped into Dean’s bones with each passing moment. Sam only knew that, for the first time in weeks, he was strong again. 


	13. The Storm

Winter was not yet over. Castiel grew ever more restless with each passing day. He knew that, once the thaw was completed, it would be time for him to move on. Every member of his so-called Angel Task Force had offers from all parts of the army, who were in dire need of skilled leaders. Castiel’s students would do well without him. When he dismissed the group from their lesson that day, he did not know it would be the final time.

Dean remained behind for another reading lesson, though Castiel was not convinced he had anything left to teach Dean. Dean proved to be a quick study when he put his mind to his task. Castiel sat across from Dean at his desk anyway. 

While he had noticed Dean’s distraction over the last few weeks, Castiel did not know if he should acknowledge it. He did not know if it was his place to do so. He chose not to, as Dean continued to produce the same high quality work as always. However, when Dean raised his head, his tired eyes and lacklustre smile made Castiel second guess that decision. 

“Are you well?” Castiel asked.

Dean blinked and some of the exhaustion in his face receded. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Castiel narrowed his eyes at the counter question and did not break his stare. Dean’s reassuring grin faltered and he reached under his desk in an excuse to look away.

“Now,” Dean said, dropping their latest book on the desk with a loud crash, “where were we?”

The lesson began, but neither Dean's nor Castiel’s hearts were in it. If only they knew it would be their last one. Perhaps then they would have made a little more effort. 

The commotion started outside the classroom, outside the castle, and outside the Capital's walls. The youngest of the recent recruits, the one who refused to give up but would never reach front lines, saw it first from his post on the wall. At first, he thought it was a cloud or an approaching storm until he realized how low it was on the horizon. Against the backdrop of the setting sun, the horde approached, their march disturbing the snow. The young recruit watched them approach and knew he saw death itself. He rang the warning bell.

Those on the wall sent runners to the castle. Those runners sent the castle gate guards to the Captain. The Captain, who planned and prepared for this moment since the last raid that took his wife away, called every knight, every recruit, and every capable fighter into action.

At the first ring, Castiel rose from his seat and moved to the window. The city had not reacted yet: mothers still shopped for food, merchants still shouted the benefits of their wares, and children still played in the snowbanks on the sides of the streets. At the second ring, the citizens stopped and turned their heads to the sound. Years had passed since the bell echoed across the city, but everyone knew what it meant. At the third ring, mothers yelled their children’s names, merchants packed up their wares, and children ended their games.

“What--” Dean joined Castiel at the window. “What’s happening?”

Born and raised in the peaceful Lawrence, spared from raids since the fire of Dean’s youth, Dean did not understand the sudden serious atmosphere which blanketed the city. 

Castiel did not answer Dean. He looked out over the city, looked beyond the people, looked through the gates, and felt a tug deep in the core of his being. His heart ached at the feeling, a feeling he had not experienced in many, many years. 

“Mister Castiel!” Garth entered the room, Pamela and Aaron on either side of him. All three were battle-ready. “Your orders, sir?

Castiel bid his students follow him. The castle clamoured with activity from every corner and faction within but, when the Angel approached, everyone moved out of his way. 

Captain Singer shouted orders to his knights a few steps from his office door. Castiel waited until the last group ran off to their assigned missions before he stepped forward. The Captain finished clipping on his sword belt before he acknowledged Castiel with a hard-eyed stare.

“Well,” the Captain said, “at least you're here.”

“What do you need from us?” Castiel asked.

“You say that like you’re not going to do whatever you want.”

“I’m here to help, Bobby,” Castiel said. He drew the Captain's attention to the four he brought with him, waiting a few paces back. “They need orders. I suppose we could consider it a final exam.”

“Jokes? From you? _Now?_ ” The Captain clicked his tongue. “Fine. You’re right.” He pushed past Castiel and faced the Angel Task Force. “Alright. Listen up! We need to round up the civilians and get them out of harm's way.”

Castiel wandered from the group. The tug he felt back in the classroom became harder and harder to resist. The current of longing pulled at him, compelled him to follow it, but he knew that whoever, or whatever, was on the other end would not have his best interests in mind. Yet, it called to him.

“Cas. Cas! Hey!” Dean grabbed Castiel’s shoulder and turned him around. “You’re not coming with us?”

“I--” Castiel blinked. His eyes wandered to the centre of the Capital. “I am being called.”

Dean would not let go of Castiel’s arm. “Cas. Are you okay?”

“You have your orders,” Castiel said. “You should follow them.” Castiel moved to free his arm but Dean refused to let him go. “What?”

“I ran into Frank on our way here,” Dean said. He stepped in closer, his voice a near whisper when he continued, “Sam wasn’t in the library when the bell rang. I don’t know where he is.” 

“Follow your orders.” Dean opened his mouth to protest but Castiel continued before he could interrupt, “You’ll be going through the city. Keep an eye out. I will too.”

Pamela shouted Dean’s name. Dean’s distraction allowed Castiel to break free. When he walked away, his entire Task Force watched him. Castiel did not notice. Castiel only noticed the call. When Castiel left Dean’s view, the sun fell into the horizon.

⁂

An hour before the bell rang, Ruby grabbed Sam’s hand when he walked by an empty shelf. She put a finger against her lips and led him out of the library, her stolen robes the colour of the highest ranking scholars. Not one person stopped them. 

As soon as they were outside and alone, Sam ripped his hand away. “What are you doing?”

Ruby smiled, her face rapturous. “It’s time.”

She gestured for Sam to follow her and disappeared around the corner. Sam glanced back at the castle. He stared at it. He looked down Ruby’s path. He stared at it. 

When the bell rang, Sam ran after Ruby.

⁂

Yet another vampire crossed Dean’s path. Yet another vampire lost his head. Dean owed Garth a beer or six once this was over for grabbing his gear for him. 

“Nice one,” Pamela said. “I think that’s the last for this area. We should head for the commons now. Captain said to direct people to Andrea’s Tavern.”

“Good,” said Aaron. “Maybe we could get a cold one? Take the edge off.” Garth and Pamela, in unison, turned to glare at him. “Come on! Obviously, I’m joking. Right?” He directed his last question to Dean. 

Dean did not hear a word they said. He scanned the streets, looking for any sign of Sam. They saved a few people cornered by ghouls but they had not seen any other humans. 

“Hey.” Garth patted Dean’s back. “We’ll find him.”

“Right,” Dean said. “Don’t know what he’d be doing in Richville, anyway.”

Not that Dean knew what Sam was doing anywhere. Not lately, anyway. 

The commons were hit harder than the rest. Last year, the people petitioned to have the wall repaired. It was never done. The Creatures breached the wall through that weak point, pouring into the streets in vast numbers. As soon as the group turned the corner, they were ambushed by a group of vampires. 

Dean, forced into an alleyway, was cut off from the group. He raised his sword, using everything he learned to stave off three vampires in the cramped space. The dark alleyway was unfamiliar to Dean. In order to keep the vampires' fangs as far away as possible, Dean continuously backed away. He ran out of space to move. His heel kicked against the stone wall behind him and either side of him was blocked by more stone. The vampires saw the opportunity. Their eyes glowed in the light of the moon as they launched toward Dean with a monstrous hiss. 

Dean would have preferred a nicer tomb. He swung his sword, catching the nearest foe on the arm. Dean smirked at the angered hiss. Nobody was taking him down without a fight. The injured vampire reached Dean first, sharp fingernails digging into the flesh of his left arm. Dean slammed the vampire against the wall behind him and, in the same movement, slashed his sword clean through the vampire’s neck. One head rolled across the ground. Good. People would know Dean did not go down easily. 

The remaining vampires worked together, lunging at Dean while he was entangled with their fellow monster. They pinned Dean against the wall, their mouths on either side of his neck. Dean struggled in their grip, trying to break free, but their supernatural strength held him in place. His sword clattered onto the ground below. 

Fangs mere inches away from his flesh, Dean closed his eyes and hoped Sam was somewhere safer than him. He hoped Sam knew he was sorry.

The pain never came. The vampires hissed, their hot breath no longer on Dean’s skin. Dean opened his eyes just in time to see some kind of axe drop down on the vampires’ heads. 

“Come on, brother.” Benny grabbed Dean to kept him from falling to the ground. “Thought you were better than that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean waved off Benny’s hand and picked up his sword. “More importantly-- where in the Realm did you get that?” He pointed to Benny’s weapon.

“What, this?” Benny hoisted the axe onto his shoulder. Black wicked-looking blades ran down the wooden handle, the sharp edges made of a material Dean did not recognize. Benny grinned, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “I wasn’t always this cute and cuddly. Anyway, we should move. The others are waiting.”

Dean followed Benny thought the streets, the main pathways now lit up with alchemical fire. The knights had already reached this section. Any Creatures who crossed their path met a quick end at Benny’s weapon or Dean's sword.

Andrea’s Tavern, packed from wall to wall with panicked citizens and a handful of knights trying to calm them down, fell silent the instant Benny closed the door behind him. Benny was out on the streets when the bell sounded. He opened the doors to the tavern to anyone who needed shelter and rounded up anyone he could find. A lot of lives were saved that night because of him. 

Benny took in the sight of all those faces watching him, lowered his axe, and shrugged. He walked to the bar, the bodies parting for him, grabbed a glass from behind the counter, filled it with liquor, and downed it in one gulp. He slammed the glass on the bartop. 

“Who’s next?” Benny asked.

After that, the tavern was back to normal. People lined up at the bar, shouting their orders. 

“Dean!” Garth leaped at Dean, attacking him with a hug. Just this one, Dean did not push him off.

“Dean, man," Aaron said, "I’m so sorry. I didn’t see those things."

“Come on, dude. None of us did.” Dean punched Aaron in the arm. “Chin up.”

“Seriously, though,” Pamela said. She handed Aaron a full glass, keeping one for herself. “Who knew the bartender could kick so much ass?” She stared across the bar and raised her glass. Benny raised one in return. 

“I’m on the job.” Aaron handed the glass back. “Hypocrite.”

Pamela blinked, arched an eyebrow, then took the glass. She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Dean,” Garth said, his eyes wide and sympathetic, “I’ve asked around. No one’s seen Sam. I’m sorry.”

“Right.” Dean, still near the entrance, had a clear view of the tavern. Even the knights had joined the crowd. “So. We fulfilled our orders, yeah?”

“We have,” Garth said. “The knights told us to wait.”

“Good,” Dean said. He pulled his cloak tighter around his body and faced the door.

“Hold on,” Pamela said. “Where are you going?”

“Our orders are to wait, right?” Garth nodded in response to Dean’s question. “Well, I can wait outside as well as I can inside.”

“You’re gonna look for Sam, ain’t ya?” Garth stood next to Dean. “Count me in.”

“Yeah.” Aaron stood on the other side of Dean. “I gotta make it up to you for that last one.”

Pamela sighed. “I just bought these.” She turned to the nearest person and shoved both glasses into his hands. “Okay, let’s go.”

“You-- You don’t have to--” Dean began.

“He’s family,” Garth said, “and we take care of our own.”

The group left the tavern not long after that. Benny’s eyes shone in the light as he watched them go. He whispered something to Jamie as he walked by, his hand on his axe. Nobody saw him leave.

⁂

Blue alchemical fire illuminated the streets Castiel travelled, as if it was directing him to the source of the call. The knights had done their jobs well, quickly and efficiently executing the Captain’s plan. The residents were either boarded up in their homes or safe in gathering places, keeping the roads clear. The city was silent. Castiel felt like he was the only one in the Realm. 

The pull he felt back at the castle became a sound, a song, the closer he got to the centre of town. Castiel suspected he knew what--who-- was waiting for him at the end. He did not know how he would react when he found out.

A clock tower sat dead centre in the Capital, its door wide open, surrounded by a ring of buildings. Some say those structures were older than the castle itself. Castiel did not know. When they were constructed, he was on the other end of the Realm. Castiel passed through the arch which marked the central district and he found the source of the call.

At the very top of the tower stood a figure of bright light and electricity. The figure appeared humanoid, except for the wings. The wings spread out across the sky, glittering as if the stars themselves were caught in their void. 

Castiel stood at the tower's base and crossed his arms. This trick had lost its effect on him a few centuries ago. 

The wings faded back into the aether. The glow lost its radiance. All that was left behind was a man. A man Castiel knew well. Or, at least he thought he did. Castiel blinked and the man appeared before him, looking exactly like his memories.

“Cassie,” the man said. “I wish I could say it’s good to see you.”

“I wish I could as well, Balthazar.” 

⁂

The entire city was chaotic. Everyone around Sam shouted and wailed, seeking loved ones and safety. The knight did an admirable job quelling the panic and pushing back the Creatures. 

Pandemonium took hold of the city but none of it reached Ruby. Any alleyway she led Sam down was clear of Creatures; any path was unhampered by knights or civilians. Her steps were fast, focused, and full of purpose. Wherever she went, a bubble of calm followed her.

Ruby led Sam into the centre of the Capital. Sam spared a glance down the pathway to Andrea's Tavern when they reached the crossroads between the Commons and the wealthy districts. Dean was out there somewhere, fighting and saving people as he always wanted. Sam was supposed to head back to the tavern, as he agreed to do in situations like this, and he paused. He took a single step down that path. 

Ruby cleared her throat. She stood halfway down the other path, her impatience clear in her stance. She turned with a swish of her robes and continued her journey, expecting Sam to follow.

Sam took one last look down the route to Andrea's Tavern. He raised his eyes to the dark sky and sent out a thought for Dean. It was a hope for his safety and an apology.

By the time Sam and Ruby reached the clock tower, the city was silent. There was no indication that Ruby noticed or even cared about the lack of life around her. She headed directly toward the clock tower's door, a door that-- according to local legend-- had been shut tight for centuries. When Ruby touched the handle, it opened without a sound. She walked through the entrance with no hesitation. Sam, on the other hand, hesitated long enough for Ruby to call his name, sharp and inpatient. He hurried to follow her up the stairs. 

Sam did not know how the interior of a clock tower should appear, but he did not think most had the floors and walls covered in symbols. The symbols were occult and ancient, some Sam recognized from books, others long lost to the ages. The clock face itself was broken; the hands stuck at midnight. No one alive could remember a time when it worked. Ruby stood at the centre, staring at the white circle of the clock face, the light from below bathing her in an unearthly glow. Beneath her feet, a symbol, painted in rusty red, swirled around the floor. Sam knew it was blood. 

Ruby turned her head and smiled at Sam, her mouth a distorted line too big for her face. “This is it, Sammy! Right here. At midnight. You will save us.”

Sam hesitated at the top step, not daring to enter the room. “What are you talking about?”

“What we were working toward!” It could have been a trick of the light, but Sam thought Ruby’s eyes flashed black. “He will rise.”

“He? Who’s he?”

“Just stand here. You’ll see. You’ll see!” 

When Sam did not move, Ruby snarled and grabbed Sam by the shoulders. She was impossibly strong and Sam could not break free. She yanked him into the circle, exactly where she stood a moment ago. A whisper sounded from all around him, one which sent shivers up his spine. 

“They told me,” Ruby said as she circled the room, making certain Sam remained still, “that I couldn’t do it. But I showed them. I showed them.” Ruby’s hair had come loose. It stood up from her head like tendrils of smoke. “I was the best of all those sons of bitches.”

“Ruby, I--”

“They’ll see. They’ll all see.” 

The clock struck twelve.

⁂

“What was that?” Garth stopped in his tracks at the booming bell.

Aaron exchanged glances with Pamela.

“No way,” he said. “It’s broken. Has been forever.”

Pamela stared down the path toward the centre of town. “I mean, there is a legend.”

“Who cares about legends?” Dean pushed past the group. “I need to find Sam.” 

“I don’t know, brother. You should listen to the lady.”

Everyone faced the source of the new voice, hands on their swords. Benny quirked an eyebrow. 

“You following us?” Aaron demanded.

“Well, yeah.” Benny raised his axe to his shoulder. “Just makin' sure you kids don’t need rescuin’ again.”

Aaron opened his mouth to reply, but Dean spoke first.

“Fine, whatever. Do what you want. Let’s just move,” Dean said.

“Now, now, brother.” Benny strode up to Dean. “Going out half-cocked’ll only get you killed.” Benny turned to Pamela. “Maybe our prettiest member would like to tell us why we should be careful?”

Pamela scoffed. “Please. We all know Dean's the prettiest.” Garth laughed and Aaron nodded. Dean was too distracted to protest. Pamela continued, “The legend I heard says that, when the broken clock strikes twelve, it heralds the end of the Realm.”

“End of the Realm?” Garth covered his mouth, aghast.

At the exact same time, Dean rolled his eyes and said, “End of the Realm?” in a mocking tone.

“Right,” Aaron said. “And I was taught the version that warns about the Devil walking the earth.”

“Devil?” Garth repeated. “What in tarnation is a Devil?”

“I pray you never find out,” Benny said. “Now, before Dean runs off on his own, I believe we were headed to the clock tower?”

⁂

“Ah, there it is, Cassie. The end of the Realm.”

The loud bell echoed into silence. 

“Come on, Balthazar. The end of the Realm has been predicted for years. It never comes true.”

“Yes, yes. I know you hate prophecy. But this is the one the Metatron wrote.”

“Really? That’s supposed to change my mind?”

Balthazar grinned, a familiar expression from a better time. “No. You wouldn’t be you if you did.” He turned around and spread his arms wide, encompassing the clock tower before him. “You have to wonder, though. I mean, this raid went down pretty quickly, huh? Have you ever _heard_ of this tower before now? And there is only one Celestial here.” Balthazar faced Castiel, his humour fading away. “Well, a Celestial and a half.”

Castiel did not reply. Balthazar knew how much those words would hurt. That was why he said them.

"And that one Celestial is little old me. Your old partner in crime."

"If Metatron is one thing," Castiel said, "it is petty.” 

Balthazar laughed. "Yeah. I guess you're right."

“Spiteful. Arrogant. Obnoxious. A giant bag of dicks.”

“Castiel,” Balthazar said with mock horror, “where did you learn to speak like that?”

“From you.”

“I choose to blame humanity.” Balthazar moved closer to Castiel. A bad idea, letting him get so close, letting him reach out and touch Castiel’s cheek. Castiel did anyway. “You know, I always thought you’d look good with a little scruff. I was right.” Balthazar dropped his arm. “I meant it. In any other circumstance, it would have been good to see you.”

Castiel looked up in time to see the flash of light behind Balthazar’s eyes. He did not move in time to avoid the wave of power. He was not prepared to land face first in the dirty snowbank.

⁂

The bell quieted and nothing happened. Sam glanced around the room but it appeared the same as before. The whispers faded into nothingness. The only sound was Ruby’s frantic pacing and angry words.

“No, no, no. It was supposed to happen. I did it right. I gave the blood. I brought the vessel. No, no, no I--” 

Ruby’s words blended together until Sam could no longer make sense of them. She stomped around the room, growing more and more unhinged by the second. Sam watched her. Slowly, carefully, he backed away to the stairs. He did not know what was in front of him, but it certainly was not the Ruby he knew.

This was the real Ruby. The Ruby Sam had never met.

“No.” Ruby stopped her pacing, her eyes glued against the clock face. She glowed in the light. “I did it right. Something is wrong. Someone is interfering. I have to go back and--”

When Ruby turned around, Sam was nowhere to be seen. 


	14. Sammy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Wednesday in my time zone. :)
> 
> (if there are any bad typos let me know. I underestimated how much time my real life stuff would take me so this only got one pass)
> 
> <3

Dean’s group arrived at the clocktower in time to see Castiel go flying into the buildings on the other side of the street. Snow shimmed in the air at the impact. 

“Cas!” Dean shouted.

The whole time, Dean had not worried about Castiel. He figured, out of everyone in the Capital, Castiel could take care of himself. Seeing the most capable fighter he knew brought down by a single blast brought him back to reality. He brought all these people-- his friends-- into the middle of a battlefield, on his personal, selfish task. When Balthazar faced Dean, he knew he was looking at a being of power.

Balthazar raised his eyebrows and mouthed the word ‘Cas?’ before he smoothed his expression into something with more gravitas. “You’re not the human I’m looking for but…” Balthazar stepped closer to Dean. “Almost. Fascinating. Now be a good boy and wait there while I play my role.”

With a lazy wave of the hand, Balthazar sent a current of power towards the group. A faint, glimmering light surrounded them. No one in the group could move. Balthazar rolled his shoulders and stood up straight. He spread his arms wide and, after making sure he had an audience, unleashed his wings. They shimmered like starlight when he flapped them. He disappeared with the sound of the wind. 

“Cas?” Dean called out. “You alright?”

“Oh, I’m--” After a grunt of effort Castiel’s voice became clearer. “How did you put it? ‘Just peachy.’”

“Cool,” Aaron said. “I don’t know about the rest of you but I can’t move at all.”

“Was that--” Garth cleared his throat. “Was that a Celestial? Golly. He doesn’t seem as nice as you, Mister Castiel.”

Castiel’s voice was closer. “Great. Did you bring everyone here?” Castiel walked into view, the stormy expression on his face darker than any of his students had ever seen.

“Um, kinda?” Pamela said, her arm hovering in an uncomfortable position.

“Hey, I’m only here to make sure these kids stay alive,” Benny drawled, his back pressed up against the archway.

“Wonderful,” Castiel said. “Perhaps another vulnerable human would like to join us?” 

At the rear of the group, Benny sighed.

“We-- We were looking for Sam and--” Dean cut off when Castiel reached their group. His eyes were round and angry, the pain in them obvious enough to cause Dean concern. “Wait. That guy isn’t your--?”

A loud wingbeat interrupted Dean’s question. Any other thoughts he may have had were gone as soon as he saw who returned with him. 

“Well, Cassie, it’s been really nice catching up and all but I got what I came for,” Balthazar said. 

Directly across from Dean, Balthazar dropped Sam onto the snow-dusted cobblestones. He grabbed Sam by his cloak hood to force him into a kneeling position. Standing behind Sam, Balthazar rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. The jewels on the sheath shone. Sam gasped and his head shot up. He stared at Dean with wide eyes.

“Dean what--” Sam stained with effort, but his body did not move. “I-- I can’t move. Dean. What’s happening? I--”

“Sammy, hey, listen to me.” On the inside, Dean’s heart beat a thousand times a second. On the outside, he was calm and ready. “Everything is going to be okay. You are going to be fine.” Sam’s eyes darted around, catching the glint of Balthazar’s sword at the edge of his vision. “Hey, hey, hey. Sammy, look at me. Just look at me. You’re going to be fine.”

“You’re sure?” At that moment, Sam gave up trying to act like an adult. He allowed himself to be the scared child he truly was.

“Yeah. When has your big brother ever lied to you?”

“Brother?” Balthazar sighed and drew his sword. Sam winced at the sound. “You know, I didn’t want an audience for this. But the Metatron gets what the Metatron wants.”

“Balthazar.” Castiel was not bound by Balthazar's magic but he knew any uncalculated movements could bring disaster. “What _the fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

“Such language! Time among the humans really has corrupted you, huh?” Balthazar said.

“Is that what Metatron says?”

“ _The_ Metatron. And yeah. Kinda. But we both know that was me.” Balthazar grin did nothing to change Castiel’s expression. “Well. I guess I can tell you. He didn’t tell me I couldn’t.” Balthazar pressed the tip of his sword against Sam’s back. Sam could do nothing but stare at Dean. “Sam Winchester is the one who will end the Realm.” 

The group behind Dean erupted into a confused murmur. Dean put all his effort into keeping Sam calm and did not react, even as his heart jumped at the echo. Castel stepped closer to Sam, close enough to reach him with an extended arm, his face full of fury.

“That is nonsense,” Castiel said. 

“That’s what the Metatron says. And the Voice speaks for the All-Father,” Balthazar said.

“Metatron is a liar. He pretends to be God but no one is. The All-Father cares not what happens here.”

“You see, that’s the kind of talk that made you an, uh, example.”

Castiel’s shoulders twitched. He squared his stance, facing Balthazar head on. “I will not allow you to harm Sam.”

“Seriously?” Balthazar balked. “What do you care? He’s _human_.”

Castiel placed a hand on his sword. “He’s my friend. And if you ever knew anything about me at all-- if you ever cared for me-- you would know what that means. You would know I never shared your disdain for humanity.”

“And if you ever cared for me at all,” Balthazar said, the muscles in his sword arm tense, “you wouldn’t have left me alone.”

“You made your loyalties clear.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Dean could not move, could not speak. When Balthazar plunged his sword through Sam’s back, Dean watched Sam’s eyes widen in terror and his body go limp. Balthazar removed his sword. He stood, his sword dripping with Sam’s blood, and stared at Castiel for one long, unending moment.

Dean saw none of that. He screamed his brother’s name, straining against the hold placed on him. Perhaps it was force of will. Perhaps Balthazar felt some regret. Either way, Dean broke free, rushing to Sam and catching him in the cradle of his arms before Sam fell in the dirt. Dean pressed a hand against the wound in his back. Sticky. Too much blood. Too much, too fast.

“Dean? I’m sorry.” Sam’s voice faded fast. “I think I’m…”

“I told you that you were going to be okay,” Dean said. “And you will. It’s not even that bad. Your herbs will fix you up good. I’m not as good as you but I can--” Sam felt heavy in his arms. “Sam?” No reply. “Sammy?”

“I had to do it, Cassie,” Balthazar said. His voice was flat. “I was just following orders.”

Castiel made a disgusted sound. “How many crimes have we committed when we were ‘just following orders?’” Castiel looked down at the scene before him, watched as Dean held his dying brother, and shoved Balthazar out of the way. 

“It was written!” Balthazar allowed himself to be moved. Had anyone else other than Castiel did that, they would have had a new sword wound.

“There is no destiny, Balthazar. Only choices. This was the wrong one.” Castiel sat behind Sam and pressed a hand to his wound. Dean never looked up from where his face was buried in Sam’s shoulder. “Dean. Sam. You’re going to be okay.”

“Cas, no!” Balthazar shouted. “The last time you healed something this bad you almost-- And you were at full power!” 

“Then perhaps you should have thought of that before doing this right in front of me.” Castiel glared at Balthazar, a challenge in his eyes. “You’ve fulfilled your mission. What happens next is none of your concern. So either kill me now or leave.”

“You stupid, sentimental, God-forsaken moron!” Balthazar spread his wings, blotting out the sky. “You haven’t changed a bit.” 

With a flap of his wings, Balthazar was gone. With his retreat, the magic holding the rest of the group was released. It did not make much difference. None of them knew what to say to the scene in front of them.

Dean heard nothing around him but the sound of his brother’s fading breaths. He felt nothing by the slow, weak beats of Sam’s heat. The only thing that made Dean look up was Castiel’s hand on his shoulder. Dean peeked out from over Sam’s shoulder and looked directly into the deep, deep blue of Castiel’s eyes. 

“You’re right,” Castiel said. “It’s going to be okay.”

Castiel's eyes flashed bright and brilliant as he called upon the deepest depths of his power. It responded to him with a high pitched whine which made the humans cover their ears. All that power took form as a radiant blue light, which flowed from Castiel’s body into Sam’s wound.

Years from that day, in a town many miles over, a man would tell his young children about the night he walked outside his home on a sleepless night and saw a pillar of light rise out from the horizon. He swore, every time he told the story, that it was divine light brought about by a powerful being to bless him and his family. His children would roll their eyes.

Castiel pushed every bit of healing power into Sam. His power ran through Sam’s veins, lighting him from the inside, seeking out any wounds. Once the internal damage was healed, Castiel sent a final pulse to Sam’s heart, making it strong again, and closed the wound. 

The moment Castiel’s light went out and he fell in the snow, Sam took a gasping breath of air. The rest of the group rushed over to help, but they had scarcely reached the others when another voice joined the group.

“Wow,” Ruby said, “I never thought I’d be thankful for a Celestial. Look at that. He even knocked himself out for me.”

Benny crouched next to Castiel. Pamela, Garth, and Aaron jumped in front of Dean, Sam, and Castiel. The three defenders raised their swords. Ruby rolled her eyes. 

“This was supposed to be it,” Ruby said. “I spent years-- _years--_ among you dumb, useless, snivelling humans. For what?” 

Sam, shaky but alive, pushed himself up to his feet. Dean could not stop him.

“What,” Sam began, his breaths uneven, “what did you do to me?”

“I made you better!” Ruby’s shout echoed over the silent streets. “You were going to save us. You still can!”

“I don’t even know what that means!” Sam stood at his full height. Dean grabbed him by the shoulder to keep him from advancing.

“You will save us. Those like me.” Ruby raised her arms. Her eyes turned black. “By ending the humans.”

With a wave of her hands, Pamela, Garth, and Aaron were flung, hard, into clock tower’s steps. They groaned, unable to move and unable to catch their breath. Benny sprung into action. He stood in front of Sam, his weapon at the ready.

Ruby’s lips curled the slightest amount, the only hint at her feelings when she eyed Benny’s weapon. “So, it’s true. You are more than you seem.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You don’t know nothin' about me.” 

Impossibly fast, Benny launched himself at Ruby. Her eyes widened a fraction before she clashed with him. Ruby held him back with an invisible forcefield. Benny pushed against it, forcing Ruby to retreat a few steps, to step back from Sam.

Dean almost jumped into the fray before Sam stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Sam's face was pale, but he was alive. There was a lot to be said in the coming days but, for now, that was enough. Sam pursed his lips and tried to say a thousand words with his eyes before he knelt in the snow beside Castiel. 

If Sam was pale, Castiel was ashen. Sam proceeded to draw on his training, checking Castiel for wounds and making sure his head was supported. He would not find anything. Whatever made Castiel fall was not going to be fixed by a few herbs and a bandage. 

Dean stood watch. He glanced over at his fellow recruits, clearly alive but out of the fight. Dean could go to them, pull them into the clocktower for shelter and let the battle pass them by. He looked over at Benny as he pushed Ruby back and wondered how long he could keep it up. Dean could join him and use their combined might to keep Ruby away from Sam, at least. He lowered his gaze to Sam and Castiel, exposed and vulnerable, and considered dragging them through the archway and out of the central district. 

None of those options appealed to Dean. He brought his friends here, all of them, and he could not figure out a way to help them, a way to not leave anyone behind. He stood in the middle of the battlefield, paralyzed by his need to make a decision. 

Ruby screamed, her voice loud and terrible. Power radiated from around her, her hair writhing and twisting in the force of it, and the snow rose from the ground. Dean looked up in time to see Benny lose his battle. 

Black eyes bored into Dean as Ruby advanced. Dean’s hands shook as he drew his sword. His limbs wavered in response to her power but he did not back down.

“Sam, take Cas and--” 

Ruby cut Dean off with a knife, its jagged edge slicing down his forearm. Dean followed up with his sword but Ruby was too fast, too unlike any of the Creatures Dean had faced, and she broke through his guard as easily as paper. He lost his grip on his sword and dropped it in the snow. Ruby aimed her dagger at his heart.

Grabbed from behind, Dean was thrown into the ground before Ruby’s dagger could connect. Dean could not see who rescued him. Sam yanked Dean's hand, using the snow nd ice to slide them both away from Ruby. Huddled together a short distance away, the Winchesters prepared for danger. When it did not come, Dean chanced a glance behind him. 

Standing under sheer force of will and little else, Castiel blocked Ruby from pursuing the Winchesters. He drew his sword and held her at bay, the blade gleaming brighter than ever before. 

“Demon,” Castiel said.

“Angel,” Ruby said. “Nice to finally meet you. Though you’re looking a little worse for wear.”

“I have taken on many of your kind with less.”

“Really?” Ruby raised her knife, the symbols along the blade shining. “I heard you weren’t able to take on Azazel.”

Castiel gripped the hilt of his sword tighter. He did not speak.

Ruby took a step closer. “I heard he got into your ranks. Corrupted them. Got so many of your beloved soldiers to turn on you. It must have been so hard on you to watch Lawrence burn.” 

Dean's heart dropped. Sam's mind raced. Both brothers listened.

“You know naught of which you speak,” Castiel said.

“Oh, Angel.” Ruby clicked her tongue. “I was there.”

Castiel wavered and Ruby struck. She plunged her dagger deep into Castiel’s stomach, over and over again. Castiel fell, clutching at his wounds, and Ruby stepped over him. 

“So,” Ruby said, stalking towards Dean, “it’s just you and me.” In one fluid movement, Ruby grabbed Dean by the neck and held her dagger at Dean’s throat, Castiel’s blood dripping off the tip. For someone much smaller than Dean, her strength held him fast. Dean could not break free. “Now, Sam, come with me and I won’t slit your brother’s throat.”

“Sammy.” Dean choked out the words. “Don’t.” 

Sam, who only a few moments ago lay dying in Dean’s arms, squared his stance and faced Ruby, a fierce look in his eyes. Dean would be proud if he was not so afraid for him. 

“You’ll leave him alone?” Sam swept over the area with a glance. “All of them?”

“Don’t,” Dean said, the words weak. 

“Okay. All of them,” Ruby said. “Though I doubt the Angel’s got much chance.”

Sam’s eyes flicked over to Dean and Dean tried to tell him no, tried to convey to him to run, to leave them all behind and save himself. Of course, Sam would not do that. Sam was a healer. He helped people. He was good.

“Okay,” Sam said.

Dean had no time to react. He never had the chance to scream. He never had the chance to fight. Ruby tossed Dean aside. He skidded to a stop beside Castiel. Something slippery coated his hands as he sat up, straining to see Sam. His brother was not there. He was gone, gone with the Demon Ruby. He stared at the empty space.

A groan from beside him made Dean look down. His hands were covered with blood. Another groan and Dean crawled over to Castiel and turned him over. 

There was a lot of blood. 

“Shit, Cas,” Dean said. “I-- I don’t know where to start.”

The snow around Castiel’s body turned pink. He gasped when Dean stripped off his cloak to press it into the wound. 

“My apologies,” Castiel whispered. “I wasn’t able to help Sam.”

“He’s alive,” Dean said. “You, on the other hand, aren’t looking so good.”

Castiel attempted a laugh but it was more of a choke. “You, however, look as good as always.”

Dean blinked and chose not to think too hard about that comment. Castiel was fading fast from blood loss and possibly did not know how that sounded. Besides, it was not the appropriate time for Dean to think about that, so he pushed it into the back of his mind. 

“Dean! Dean, I’m so sorry we--” Garth’s words died in his mouth.

“Oh. Oh no,” Pamela said.

“Fuck,” Aaron said.

“Guys I--” Dean swallowed. “I don’t know what-- Sam’s the one who-- I--”

Dean’s babbling was cut off with a hand to his shoulder. Benny knelt over Castiel’s head.

“Hey, chief,” he said. “You alright?”

Castiel’s eyes remained half open. “Been better.”

“And here I was all ready to complain about a couple of broken ribs,” Benny said.

“Everyone okay?” Castiel asked. When everyone replied in the affirmative, his lips quirked. Perhaps it was a smile. “Good.” His eyes closed.

“Cas?” Dean brought a hand to Castiel’s cheek. He left a streak of red behind. “Cas. Come on, man. Don’t make me lose you, too.”

Castiel’s eyelids fluttered. His eyes opened, just enough for Dean to see a tiny sliver of blue. Dean focused on that. He focused on that so much he never saw his fellow recruits exchange looks or saw Benny shake his head at them. 

“Lying in the snow like this can’t be helping him,” Aaron said. “We gotta get him to a healer.”

“You’re right,” Garth said. “Maybe Ash could--”

“No,” Pamela said. “We can’t just drag him through the whole Capital like this. It would be bad for him. All the knights will be there and--”

“Could you imagine the uproar if they all saw their heroic Angel like this?” Benny concluded. “He’d probably kick our asses for even thinkin’ about it.” 

Castiel’s eyes shut. He did not reply. He needed help and he needed it an hour ago.

“Andrea’s Tavern,” Dean said. “Sam’s herbs are there. I’m not as good but I can use them.”

“There’s a lot of people there, too,” Pamela said.

“That’s alright,” Benny said. “I installed a hidden back entrance a long time ago. We won’t be noticed.”

“Okay. It’s settled,” Dean said.

Dean took command. Garth was the fastest, so he was sent to the castle to get help from Ash. Benny was the strongest so he took the bulk of Castiel’s weight as they moved. Pamela and Aaron kept Castiel stable, while Dean applied constant pressure to his wound. Thankfully, they encountered no one at their slow, crawling pace. The civilians still avoided the streets.

By the time the group made it up the stairs at Andrea's Tavern and settled Castiel into Dean’s bed, their brows shone with sweat. Aaron and Pamela looked as tired as Dean felt, their scratches and bruises taking their toll. Dean ordered them to return to the castle for treatment. They protested but left after Dean nudged them out the door. Dean wanted to tell Benny to do the same, but there was no way he would listen. 

Benny took over keeping pressure on Castiel’s wound while Dean rummaged through Sam’s trunk at the foot of his bed. The kid was one of the messiest people Dean had ever met, but he kept his medicines meticulously organized and labelled. He grabbed the jar marked yarrow that said it would stop bleeding and a few clean cloth bandages. That would have to do. When he tried to stand up, Dean was hit with a feeling of vertigo. He gripped the edge of the trunk and forced his hands to stop shaking.

He could not stop now. He could not think about Sam. He could not think about Lawrence. He could not think about Ruby’s black eyes, about Castiel’s blood on his hands, about the bruises all over the body. He could not think about it because, if he did, he would curl up into a ball and give in to despair. He could not give in. He had to help Castiel because, despite everything, he had saved Sam’s life. 

“You alright, brother?” Benny said as Dean approached. 

Dean did not bother to respond. He instructed Benny to peel back the cloak. Both the cloak and Castiel’s shirt were stained beyond saving. Dean leaned in close and examined the wound. The fabric of Castiel’s shirt clung to the edges of the wound. For the first time that night, Dean noticed Castiel had not worn armour.

“What kind of idiot doesn’t wear his damn armour?” Dean muttered. 

Benny did not answer. The logical conclusion was that the raid happened too quickly for anyone to properly prepare. The truth was, however, that the type of person to walk into battle without any kind of armour was the type of person who was too cocky or did not care if they survived. Not many people would describe the Angel as cocky.

Dean ripped open Castiel’s shirt, gently peeling it away from the wound. Castiel hissed when Dean poked against the biggest hole. The bleeding slowed. That was a good sign, Dean figured. He was pretty sure this was the point he needed to clean the wound. With one guilty glance at Benny, Dean reached under his bed and retrieved a mostly full bottle of whiskey. 

“Where’d you get that?” Benny asked.

“I’m good for it,” Dean said. 

Benny hummed. He said nothing, waiting for orders.

“Okay." Dean took a deep breath. "You’re gonna have to, uh, hold him I guess.”

Benny gripped Castiel by the shoulders. Dean popped the cork on the bottle. He looked down at Castiel, looked down at the stab wounds which covered most of his stomach, and winced. Dean was pretty sure about this, but he really, really did not want to be wrong.

“Sorry, buddy,” Dean said.

He poured the alcohol onto the wounds. He held Castiel’s legs to keep him from bucking up. Dean squeezed his eyes shut until Castiel settled. He took one of the cloths and cleared away as much blood as he could, muttering words of apology at every sound Castiel made. Dean really, really, did not like hurting Castiel.

That task complete, Dean threw the soiled cloth to the floor beside the discarded cloak. He picked up the jar of yarrow and scooped out the poultice with his bare hands. Dean knew there had to be a better way to do that, but his overtaxed brain could not remember. He smeared a thick layer over Castiel’s skin, too much in truth, but Dean was not taking any chances. By the time he finished, the jar was empty. 

“Okay.” Dean wiped his hands on his pants, smearing the remaining poultice all over himself. “Okay, we need to, um, bandage him up. We should wrap it all around for, you know, pressure?”

Benny nodded as if Dean had not phrased his words as a question. Together, they managed to wrangle Castiel into a seated position. Together, they gasped.

Two long parallel lines ran down Castiel’s shoulders. They were scars, raised and knotted in an angry red colour. They appeared as if they were never allowed to heal. They appeared as if they hurt. 

“What--” Dean could not complete the thought.

“Dean.” Benny’s voice was kind and gentle. His eyes conveyed an emotion-- full of understanding borne of experience-- Dean could not understand. Not yet.

“Right. Right. Bandages.” 

A few moments later, Castiel lay in Dean’s bed with fresh, clean bandages wrapped around nearly all his torso. Dean did not know what else to do, so he tucked Castiel into bed, trying to keep him comfortable. Dean pushed back Castiel’s hair from his forehead, making sure his temperature was stable. Dean checked to make sure he was breathing. Dean checked to make sure he was alive. 

Dean did not remember sitting on Sam’s bed. Dean did not remember laying down. Dean did not remember falling asleep. He remembered dreaming of fire, of reaching into his brother’s crib to save him, and of seeing blood on his hands. 


	15. Alone

A week passed and Castiel spent most of it asleep in Dean’s bed. Ash managed to break away from his duties long enough to treat Castiel. Ash told Dean he did a good job-- for an amateur-- but Ash also made a point of teaching him what to do over the next few days.

Each member of the Task Force dropped by-- all of them covered in bandages and smelling of pungent medicines-- to update Dean on what was happening in the castle. The knights focused on protecting the citizens, rebuilding what they could and guarding what they could not. Everyone covered for Dean, even Ash, so Dean’s continued absence was excused. Dean knew that could not last forever.

Nobody could give Dean news about Sam. Dean never expected it. He still hoped. He spent his time sifting through Sam’s small collection of books, searching for anything about Demons. It was a slow, frustrating process and Dean had nothing to show for it. Dean knew it was pointless. The information he needed lay in the mind of the person passed out on his bed. Any time not expended on books or checking on Castiel’s wounds was spent on figuring out the right questions to ask him when he woke up.

Dean had to wait. Dean hated waiting. 

Halfway through the second week of Castiel’s recovery, Dean awoke to an empty room. It was after last call, so Andrea’s Tavern was completely silent. He knew something was wrong right away. Dean had grown accustomed to the sound of Castiel’s quiet breathing and the subtle feel of his presence in the room. Castiel was not present.

Dean shot out of bed. With his injuries, Castiel could not have gone far. Still wearing his clothes from the day before, Dean wrapped the blanket from the bed around his shoulders since had not replaced his cloak. He knew exactly where to go.

Castiel stood on the roof, his skin exposed to the cold. He watched over the city, his back to Dean. In the moonlight, the scars on Castiel’s back stood out in stark relief against his skin. Castiel inclined his head at Dean’s arrival and waited.

Dean wanted to be happy at this sudden recovery, wanted to feel relieved, wanted to launch into an interrogation, but instead, he said, “You idiot! You know it’s still winter out here, right?”

Castiel did not reply but Dean thought he saw the corner of his eye crinkle. Perhaps Castiel smiled. Dean marched to Castiel, sending snow and patches of ice flying off the roof, shrugged the blanket off his shoulders and wrapped it around Castiel. 

“I don’t feel the cold as acutely as you,” Castiel said to the streets below.

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one with a bunch of stab wounds.” Dean tightened the blanket. “So either take it or get your stupid ass inside.”

There was no doubt Castiel smiled now, though it was on the edge of a grimace. “You see, that’s what makes this so difficult.”

“What?”

“You’re stubborn. You’re reckless, bordering on insanity. You’re quick to anger and prone to picking fights.”

“Wow, Cas. Tell me how you really feel.”

“But you’re loyal, a leader, and able to do anything you set your mind to.” Castiel raised his gaze and looked right at Dean, his eyes blazing in the dark of night. “You’re kind. You take care of people in need, no matter how big or small. You take care of me. From the moment we met you have always, _always,_ treated me like a person. You have no idea how much that has meant to me.”

“Oh. I, uh, I--” Dean searched for a sarcastic remark but he could not find one over the lump in his throat.

“I never stayed in one place this long before,” Castiel continued, “not since I left Heaven. I think you-- and your brother-- kept me here. Kept me grounded.”

“Cas, what are you saying?”

Castiel pursed his lips and looked away. “I was going to leave,” he said, so softly Dean had to strain to hear him, “before you woke up. I was going to pursue the Demon. But when I walked out of your room, I realized that I--” 

A cold gust of wind blew past them. Dean wrapped his arms around his body, his thin shirt doing little to shield him, and tried to keep from shivering. The blanket fell around Dean’s shoulders. He glanced up to see Castiel watching him.

“You’re cold,” Castiel said. “Perhaps we should get both our ‘stupid asses’ inside?”

Castiel headed for the door before Dean could grab him and demand he finish his previous thought. Dean wanted-- no, needed-- to hear the end of that sentence. 

Dean never would.

⁂

_I no longer wish to be alone._

Castiel almost said it out loud. The shape of the words rested on his tongue, ready to be given life, when he thought better of it. He already said more than he should have and it would not be fair to place that burden on Dean. Not when Castiel knew what he needed to do.

Dean insisted on looking at Castiel’s injuries when they returned to his room, his hands gentle as he checked the bandages. Castiel should have been miles away from the Capital at that point. Instead, he followed Dean's instructions to sit down on the bed, took Dean's offering of clean clothing taken from his own possessions, and accepted the long silence as Dean sat across from him on the other bed. Dean's expressive face showed an inner battle. Castiel did not interrupt. 

“You lied to me, you know,” Dean said.

Castiel waited. He waited for the anger, for the shouted words, for the rejection. He steeled himself. 

“You totally glow,” Dean concluded.

Castiel looked up. Dean was not smiling but he was not angry either. He looked sad. He looked tired.

“My powers glow,” Castiel said, “not me.”

“Whatever, dude. Same difference.” Dean clenched his jaw. He sat silent for a few moments before he spoke again. “It’s been a week and a half. I don’t know where Sam is.”

“I suspect he is with the Demon.”

“And you said you wanted to go after her.” Dean leaned forward. “Where would that be?”

“The place all Demons come from,” Castiel said. “A place called Hell.”

“As I said: where would that be?”

Castiel shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you would try to follow me.”

Dean jumped off of the bed, his boots hitting the floor with a loud thump. “Obviously! That Demon took my damn brother! I gotta get him back.”

“And you will,” Castiel said. “I will make sure of it.”

“How?” Dean stomped to where Castiel sat. He poked at Castiel’s ribs. Castiel groaned at the pain. “You still need to recover. You nearly died on me last week and I don’t plan on letting it happen again.”

There was the anger Castiel expected. He did not expect it to be directed in this way, laced with concern for Castiel’s well-being. Dean loomed over Castiel’s sitting form, his chin high and defiant, and Castiel looked up at him, confused.

“Why not?” Castiel asked.

“What?”

“After everything that happened-- after everything that you heard-- why would you care what happened to me?”

Dean sighed and sat down next to Castiel. “You mean the part where your ex stabbed my brother?”

“That’s one reason,” Castiel said.

“I don’t know if you remember this, but you literally brought him back from-- from the--” Dean faltered, swallowing the word. “You fixed him. Considering what you told me about your powers, that could not have been easy on you.” 

“I only did what was right.”

“Yeah. And you’d be well within your rights not to.” 

Castiel tilted his head and stared at Dean. Castiel said nothing.

“Okay, yeah,” Dean said after yet another moment of silence passed. “I do want to hear about Lawrence, but I don’t want to hear it from someone trying to kill me. I mean, considering all the times you saved Sam and me, I should at least give you a chance to tell your side.” 

“That’s rather level headed of you.”

“I’ve had some time to cool down and think it over.” Dean shrugged. “You know, in between all the moments I kept you from bleeding out.”

Castiel wrapped an arm around his stomach, feeling the bandages underneath the fabric of his borrowed shirt. He did not know his wounds were that severe. Usually, he recovered quickly, a trait he attributed to his healing abilities. Perhaps using his powers on Sam forced him to heal slowly-- like a mortal-- reliant on herbs and the mercy of other people. Apparently, Castiel was at the mercy of Dean.

“You did that?” Dean gave another shrug to Castiel’s question, his eyes fixed on the wall across the room. Castiel squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Dean mumbled a wordless acknowledgment. Castiel noticed the pink flush on Dean’s cheeks, but he attributed it to exhaustion. 

“I don’t have magic powers but I do know some stuff. Ash did most of the work.” Dean kicked his feet, the sound from hitting the bed frame reminiscent of a ticking clock. “Cas.” Dean stilled and the room grew quiet once more. “Why were you in Lawrence back when we first met?”

“A moment of weakness.”

“And that means?”

“Every few years I patrol the area around your village. I set up some traps made with the help of the alchemists. Most of the Creatures have figured out they should stay out of the area. They have more intelligence than you’ve been led to believe.”

“Wow,” Dean said. “Kubrick’s right. We do have a guardian spirit. Or, I guess, a guardian Angel.” 

“I’m no guardian. I’m just trying to make amends.” Castiel leaned forward and clasped his hands together over his knees. He focused on his hands as he spoke. “The day I met you was the one and only time I entered your village since I destroyed it. I wanted to see its recovery. Rather selfish of me, really.”

“Since _you_ destroyed it? Didn’t that demon say something about corruption?”

“It was under my command. Therefore, it was my fault.” Castiel sighed and pressed one hand against his stomach in response to a flare in pain. “For centuries, I led the Celestial army. For centuries, Demons integrated themselves into my ranks. I was so sure of myself, so confident in God’s plan, that I never once considered I would be betrayed.”

Azazel was the Demon ringleader. He worked his way up the ranks. He gained the Celestial higher-ups' trust. He gained Castiel’s trust. Azazel used that trust to bring his Demons into the army, to corrupt many Celestials-- like Uriel, Castiel's second in command-- and enacted his plans, honed and perfected over thousands of years. 

Castiel did not know Azazel’s plans. He did not know that Lawrence, a tiny village hardly worthy of note, was specifically chosen by Azazel. He did not know that the only reason Lawrence burned was that Mary Winchester walked into her youngest son’s nursery late at night and saw an unfamiliar man leaning over her son's crib. Mary Winchester witnessed something she should never have seen. A human woman, concerned for her son, was the reason Azazel’s Demonic nature was revealed.

Castiel only knew that his simple raid, one intended to scare the humans and little more, had uncovered the lies and corruption behind the one who sat on the Throne of God. 

“I took the blame for it. For all of it,” Castiel continued. “I was stripped of my command and was confined to Heaven. I used that time to investigate. I uncovered a lot of lies. Which…” Castiel clutched at his side. He was bleeding. “Which led to me leaving Heaven.” 

“I feel like a few steps were missing there,” Dean said.

“Perhaps a few.” A phantom pain ran down Castiel’s back to accompany the real pain in his side. “It has nothing to do with Lawrence, I promise.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “You know, I’m pretty sure this is the longest you’ve ever talked about yourself since I met you. To think I’ve been telling you all about my boring life.”

“Your life isn’t boring, Dean. I quite enjoy your stories.” 

Hunching over, Castiel tried to keep Dean from noticing the stain on his hands. He could not, however, keep the strain out of his voice. Dean broke free from his stare at the wall and noticed Castiel’s posture. He knelt before Castiel and forced him to sit up. 

“Shit, Cas. Why didn’t you say anything?” Dean pushed up Castiel’s shirt and inspected the bandages. 

“You’ve done enough,” Castiel said, as Dean walked to the other side of the room for medicinal supplies.

Dean knelt in front of Castiel again. “Clearly not, if you’re still bleeding.”

With careful hands, Dean treated Castiel's wound. He was mindful of Castiel bruises and his face showed great concentration when he redressed the wound. He bid Castiel rest after he finished. Castiel gave no argument and lay back on the bed. Dean settled into Sam’s bed on the other side of the room.

“Hey, Cas?” 

The room was so quiet, the night so deep and silent, that the soft question shocked Castiel out of near-sleep. Castiel did not know he could sleep. Another sign of what happens when a Celestial lives among the humans.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Do you know why that Azazel guy set fire to our home?”

“He did _what_?”

“The fire. It started in Sam’s nursery. You didn’t know?”

“I-- I did not.”

Castiel remembered seeing houses burn. He remembered seeing the citizens run for their lives. He remembered the woman with steel in her eyes. That woman, Castiel reasoned, could not be someone Dean knew. Could she? 

“Oh. You think it means anything?”

“I don’t know. I should investigate it.” Castiel tried to keep his voice neutral but his mind was running through thousands of possible explanations all at once. 

“Not until you’re better. And not without me.” 

At the end of the winter, the Captain planned to update his roster of knights. Many recruits were about to realize their dreams. Dean was one of them. Castiel did not want Dean to lose his chance. Running off to chase Demons would keep Dean away from the Capital, away from the knights, and away from his goal. 

“Dean. You don’t need to be involved in this. I will get your brother back. I promise.”

“You will. I know because I’m gonna be there.”

“Dean. You--”

“That Azazal guy. He’d be in Hell, yeah? Since he’s a Demon?”

“I suppose he could.” Castiel regretted revealing the name of that place to Dean. “But that doesn’t mean--”

“Good. I’m gonna find him, too.” There was anger in Dean’s voice. It made Castiel cold.

“Why?”

“Because he was the one who killed my mother.” 

⁂

It took Castiel nothing short of a miracle-- and he knew miracles-- to convince Dean to stay put for the next week, to reassure him that Castiel would not leave. Castiel planned to leave. He tried, once again, to steal away in the middle of the night. He made it to the gates before he turned back around, unable to handle the simple thought of how Dean would react to being left behind. 

It was strange for Castiel to feel this way. Even when he was with Balthazar, Castiel did not hesitate to do what he needed. Castiel left without a word on more than one occasion. This time, however, Castiel could not do it. 

Morning came, and Castiel remained in the Capital. Instead of walking through the gate, Castiel marched to the castle. He did not stop until he stood in front of the Captain’s door. He pounded on it, hard enough for it to shake. 

“Alright, alright!” Captain Singer shouted from inside his office once it was clear the person on the other side would not leave. “Don’t you people sleep?” The door opened and the Captain saw Castiel waiting for him. “Guess not.” 

The Captain walked back into his office, leaving the door open. Castiel took it as an invitation to enter. They sat at the Captain’s desk, a messy array of papers covering its entire surface.

Captain Singer leaned forward, his chin supported by his hands, and assessed Castiel. The Captain noticed Castiel’s messy hair and unkempt beard. He noticed the cheap clothing he wore and the slight hunch in his usual perfectly straight posture. The Angel, with dark circles under his eyes and a stormy expression, looked like someone human.

“Thought you up and left us,” the Captain said, after sitting in silence for too long. “Took a bit of squeezing, but I finally got your students to tell me where you were. How’s the wound?”

“Fine,” Castiel said.

Captain Singer hummed, a neutral sound in reaction to Castiel’s dark tone. “You know, they wouldn’t tell me _how y_ ou got hurt. They’re a loyal bunch.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel said. “It’s more likely that you wouldn’t believe them.”

“Oh really?” The Captain waited for a reply that never came. “You’re not going to either, huh?”

“No.”

“Then why in the whole damned Realm are you even here?”

Castiel sighed and stood. Captain Singer did not miss the way Castiel held onto his side as he moved. 

“I’ve come to request-- No. I’ve come to demand that you place Dean Winchester on leave, effective immediately, and that his position here, with all the opportunities we have spoken about before, will remain for him when he returns. Whenever that return may be.”

The Captain stared at Castiel for a long, long, time. “And why would I let _you_ tell me how to run my army? The Winchester kid wants leave? Fine. He gets thirty days like the rest. And he can ask himself.”

Castiel rarely threw his weight around. Most people were quick to bend to the will of the Angel the few times he did, so the Captain’s resistance, while not unexpected, ruffled Castiel’s non-existent feathers. 

“You will do as I say.” Castiel did not raise his voice but it was filled with the authority of someone with centuries of command, used to having his way.

“I will, will I?” 

Castiel faced the shelves. He touched the cold metal of an old dented helmet, the one the recruit Robert Singer wore in his first battle. 

“Yes,” Castiel said.

Captain Singer scoffed. “I’m not some raw recruit awestruck by a couple of stories, _Angel._ You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

“Eleanor Visyak.” 

As soon as the final syllable left Castiel’s mouth, the Captain leapt from his chair and hurried to Castiel's side.

“How do you know that name?” The Captain asked, his voice low and full of urgency.

“I’ve been to all corners of the Realm.” Castiel straightened the books next to the helm, not looking the Captain in the eye. “All one has to do is listen.” 

Truth be told, Castiel did not know a lot about Eleanor Visyak. He knew that she and the Captain had been involved in some way and that she disappeared fast and conveniently, right after rumours about her inhuman nature began to spread. Eleanor Visyak had lived and vanished long before Castiel left Heaven, but her name could be found in many libraries, many books, and in the mouths of the scholars who studied under her. The Captain’s reaction to her name was more than enough for Castiel to confirm his suspicions about why her body was never found. 

The Captain growled. “Officially she’s dead. Years ago. You can’t--”

“Officially?” Castiel noticed how the Captain pursed his lips and looked away. “All I’m suggesting is that, maybe, somehow, the Captain of the Royal Army misfiled a few things, lost a few pieces of evidence here and there. Perhaps I could become worried about that and want an investigation. I think, if I, the Angel, went to the crown with my concerns they would take them rather seriously.”

“Blackmail? Is that what this is?” Captain Singer scoffed but the hunch in his shoulder showed his defeat. “That is so not your style.”

“On the contrary,” Castiel said. 

Eons ago, when Castiel was certain in God’s plan and his place within it, Castiel did everything he needed to ensure victory. Many of those actions, those choices, weighed him down long after they happened. Those days, he had divine authority to hold him upright. These days, all he had was his own moral code, his own beliefs. Looking at Captain Singer’s stricken face, Castiel found it harder and harder to stand tall.

“Fine,” the Captain said. He returned to his seat at the desk. “Do what you want. I’m assuming all this is about Winchester’s missing brother? After this, you damn well better get them both back in one piece. And you better not show your face around this office for a long time.”

“Glad we could come to an arrangement.”

“You bastard.”

“No, I have a father,” Castiel said. “He just doesn’t care.”

Castiel turned on his heel and opened the office door. Just as Castiel was about to leave, the Captain called out.

“Cas.” Castiel waited as Captain Singer continued, his voice softer and kinder than Castiel had any right to hear, “You really care for him, don’t you?”

Castiel left without a word.


	16. Do Not Go Gentle

Another week without Sam went by and Dean was certain alcohol was the reason he survived that long. Last call happened an hour ago, but Dean did not have anywhere else to go. He lived in Andrea's Tavern, after all. Dean had not returned to duty at the castle. He would be surprised if there was still a place for him there. 

Whatever. Dean’s dreams of knighthood meant nothing if he could not share it with Sam. Dean swore to protect his brother, to provide for him, to give him a good life. Without Sam, the last of his blood family, Dean did not know for what he was supposed to live. Everything he did, he did for his family.

Garth, Pamela, and Aaron came by, multiple times, in an attempt to bring Dean back into the land of the living. Dean grunted in reply to their pleas. The one time he spoke, it was to ask them for another drink. 

This night, none of them came. Dean figured they finally gave up on him. He hunched over his table in the empty tavern, making his drink last, and could not decide if he was happy about that, or sad. 

“Come on, brother,” Benny said. “I should’ve cut you off days ago.” 

Benny tried to take Dean’s glass away. Dean snarled and held his drink to his chest. Benny sighed. 

The tavern door opened and a gust of wind-- not as biting these days due to the imminent arrival of spring-- rattled the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Benny faced the doorway, about to shout that he was closed, when he saw who stood in the doorway.

"Good," Benny said, "maybe he'll listen to you."

Castiel spared Benny a nod before he marched to Dean's seat. Dean had not bothered to look up from his glass so, when Castiel yanked Dean to his feet by the collar of his shirt, Dean stumbled.

"On your feet, soldier," Castiel said.

Dean swayed where he stood. "Wha--?"

"I did not spend the last week burning many"-- he paused, searching for the correct idiom-- "balconies so you could sit here and wallow in your drink." 

Using the table behind him to stabilize himself, Dean finally managed to look Castiel in the face. What he saw there was painful.

"Uh, bridges," Dean said, his voice rough from disuse.

"What?"

"The word you're looking for. It's 'burning bridges,' not balconies."

Castiel narrowed his eyes, his head tilted to the side as he watched Dean. "I believe I made my point." 

Castiel reached across Dean and plucked the half-empty glass from the table. He handed it to Benny, who took that as his cue to leave. 

"Hey!" Dean protested.

"You've had enough, or so I've been told." 

"Look. I stayed because you asked me too. What else was I supposed to do?"

Castiel threw his hands up, letting them fall with a slap against his thighs. "Go back to work, ideally." 

Castiel pushed past Dean, took a seat at the table, and buried his face in his hands. After a brief moment of hesitation, Dean joined him. 

"So," Dean began, "what balconies did you burn?"

A small sound of amusement escaped the cage of Castiel's fingers. "Let's just say I won't be leading any more task forces for a while."

Dean looked at Castiel then, really looked. He looked at the curve of Castiel's shoulders. He looked at how Castiel placed his weight on his less injured side. He looked at how, when Castiel pulled his hands away from his face to stare Dean in the eyes, the circles under his eyes had grown darker since Dean last saw him. 

"Cas," Dean said. He cleared his throat, speaking carefully as not to slur his words. "Are you okay?"

"Sometimes I wonder about the things that I do," Castiel said, "and about how far I am willing to go."

Dean did not understand the words but he did feel the emotion behind them. "Cas?"

Castiel shook his head then sat straight backed in his chair, every inch the commander. "Go to bed, Dean. Sober up. Meet me at the training grounds at first light tomorrow. Bring your gear." 

"Why?"

"There is one more thing I must do before we leave to pursue the Demon and find Sam."

Dean's head cleared at the use of one single word. "We?"

No reply came from Castiel. He stood from the chair and left the tavern, gone as fast as he arrived.

⁂

The effects of drinking for a week straight hit Dean the instant he woke up. When Dean walked down the stairs, he saw a water pitcher waiting for him on the bartop. Dean drank it, forgoing the glass entirely. He made a mental note to be nicer to Benny.

Dean was awake but the sun was not. He passed no one on his way to the castle. The guard on duty waved Dean through, calling him by name. Apparently, Dean was recognizable these days, despite his absence. Dean hesitated before he replied. He made another mental note to start learning people's names. 

Castiel stood in the middle of the training grounds with his back to Dean and his head tipped back to watch the sky. He wore his usual leather armour and his sword, wrapped as always, was strapped to his hip. By the time Dean reached this part of the castle, daybreak had arrived. 

The early morning sun bathed Castiel in a golden light. The clouds no longer held the darkness of winter storms. Dean believed that the storms had fallen to the ground, had fallen to become the one known as Castiel. Dean never considered himself to be much of a poet but, standing there in the quiet, empty, training grounds certain that he and Castiel were the only ones in the Realm, Dean sure felt like one. 

The sun cleared the horizon and Dean realized how long he spent staring. Castiel never moved the entire time. Dean approached slowly, trying to walk as silently as Castiel. Evidently, he had not mastered the skill, as Castiel turned around.

"You've arrived," Castiel said.

"Well yeah," Dean said, rubbing the back of his head, "you told me too."

There was that head tilt again. Dean noticed it more often these days. It could be that Dean began to take note of Castiel's mannerisms more and more over the last year. It could be that Castiel began to express himself more and more the closer he grew to his human charges. Perhaps it was a bit of both, a change affecting both of them. 

"I see you brought your sword," Castiel said. "Good. Draw it."

"What?" 

"Draw it. I want you to fight me."

"What? You never spar. With, like, anyone." Dean glanced around. There were no training swords or training dummies. There was just Castiel. "Shouldn't-- Shouldn't we use training gear or something?"

Castiel shook his head. Impossibly fast, impossibly silent, Castiel drew his sword and lunged at Dean. The point of his blade rested against Dean's throat.

"You see," Castiel said, his mouth set and eyes boring into Dean's soul, "if I were a Demon, you would be dead right now."

In the presence of humans, Castiel's sword did not gleam. He sheathed his sword and fell back, standing in the same place as before. It was as if he never moved. 

Castiel sighed. "That defiant streak-- that part of you that questions everything-- is something I should have worked harder to curtail. But it makes you who you are. It makes you a better knight. A future leader." Castiel stepped forward and leaned into Dean's space. "It is also what gets you killed."

"Come on, Cas." Dean rolled his eyes. "I know you're not gonna kill me."

"But how do you know?"

"What?"

"How do you know I'm not just trying to gain your trust? Maybe I'm looking to lure you out into the open, alone"-- Castiel swept his arms wide to encompass the empty training grounds-- "to kill you."

"Because you're not."

"Really? Because that's what Demons do. I'm not above the tactic myself." 

"You're not a Demon, Cas."

"I'm not?" Castiel smiled. It was not a happy one. "Demons are, by definition, Celestials who have fallen from Heaven into the shadows below. By that criteria, I am, in fact, a Demon."

"Are we gonna keep going in circles, here?" Dean made no effort to back away from Castiel's closeness. "You're Cas. It doesn't matter what else you are."

For a while, Castiel did not move. He watched Dean, his face slowly morphing from his usual carefully blank look to something more open and-- to Dean's surprise-- vulnerable. Castiel backed away from Dean and turned around, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"You-- You shouldn't--" Castiel dropped his hand to his side and faced Dean, the crack in his composure, his armour, gone. "I need you to understand that Demons are not like any of the Creatures you've faced. You will not be protected by me or the knights in controlled conditions. You will be far away from healers or towns. Any mistake could cost your life. I need you to understand that the only way I will agree to take you with me to save your brother is if you can promise me that you will live."

"And what about you?"

Castiel did not answer. He drew his sword and held it out to Dean in challenge. Dean wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword and pulled it out with the sound of metal on metal. He held his father's sword aloft, which he kept sharp and battle-ready.

"Good," Castiel said. "Make it a habit to listen to my orders from here on. Now, show me everything you learned. Show me you are worthy of the title of knight." Castiel opened his arms, leaving himself wide open for an attack. "Show me."

Dean raised his sword and launched himself straight towards Castiel. It was the most obvious and rash form of attack. Castiel shook his head and took one step to the side. Dean barrelled past Castiel, nearly tripping over his feet in his attempt to stop.

“We both know you’re better than that,” Castiel said.

“You didn’t say _how_ to do it.”

“If you aren’t going to take this seriously, Dean,” Castiel said, “I will leave you to drown in your drink.”

Regaining his balance, Dean turned just in time for Castiel to close the distance between them. Dean barely had time to raise his sword to block Castiel’s blow.

“Damn it, Cas!” Dean grit his teeth and pushed back against Castiel. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Castiel stepped away from Dean, who almost fell onto the ground due to the sudden lack of resistance.

“You won’t,” Castiel said. 

Leaving Dean no time to recover, Castiel launched into a series of attacks. Dean parried each one, the ring of their blades echoing through the grounds. While Dean had seen Castiel fight before, he was not prepared to have that force focused on him. Every time Castiel slipped through Dean’s defences, he hit Dean with the flat of his blade. Every time, Dean fixed his stance and began again. 

The sun reached its zenith and still Dean and Castiel fought. Covered head to toe in sweat, his sword heavy in his hands, and bruises forming all over his body, Dean drew upon all his training, all of his lessons over the last year, and knew he was no match for Castiel. Castiel, by contrast, was calm and collected. The single hint of Castiel’s exhaustion was the slightest hitch in his breath. 

The noise attracted a small crowd, blurry in the distance as no one wanted to get too close, but Dean never noticed that. He focused on Castiel. He focused on how Castiel slowed his movements. He focused on how Castiel let Dean gain ground. He focused on how Castiel’s expression changed when he twisted his waist to avoid Dean’s attack, the only indication that he was injured.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean said after his latest attack nearly reached Castiel’s throat, “you’re going easy on me.”

They were close together now. Dean saw Castiel’s nostrils flare. Dean saw the warning flash behind Castiel’s eyes. 

“Oh,” Castiel said, “am I?”

One second, Dean stood staring at Castiel, trying to anticipate the next move. The next second, he lay staring at the clouds in the sky, trying to remember how his lungs worked.

Dean had little time to contemplate his change in perspective before Castiel filled his view. Castiel grabbed Dean’s wrist, forcing Dean to let go of his father’s sword. Castiel sheathed his own sword, then leaned over Dean’s body, his face so close to Dean’s their noses touched. 

“You’re dead,” Castiel whispered. 

The words, delivered with such sadness, sent a chill down Dean’s body. Dean tried to reply but he could not catch his breath, not when all he could see was Castiel’s eyes.

“Meet me at the gates tomorrow morning. Pack for a long journey,” Castiel said. “Now promise me.”

Dean was very aware of Castiel’s weight pressing him down and very aware of the heat rising to his cheeks. Dean cleared his throat but his voice still husky when he asked, ”Promise what?”

“That you’ll live.” 

Dean licked his lips. He could not think. He could not concentrate, not when the training grounds faded out around him. All he could see was Castiel. All he could think about was the closeness of their faces. All he could imagine was what would happen if Castiel moved down just a little bit more.

It never occurred to Dean to break free of Castiel hold. It never crossed Dean’s mind to reach out for his sword. He stared up at Castiel and never once thought to tell him no.

“I promise.” 

Castiel closed his eyes and tilted his face toward the sun. “I’ll hold you to that.” 

Castiel stood up, leaving Dean to stare up into the blue sky. Dean let him go. He stayed behind, trying and failing to control his body’s heat. So focused on that, he never once stopped to think about what that promise meant, about why it was so important to Castiel he made it.

A few months later, Dean would really wish he did.


	17. Red

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Sammy. Everything is going to be okay.”

Sam could not answer the voice above him, could not slap away the hand that pushed his hair back from his forehead. He did not know where he was, as it was dark all around him. Any time he tried to turn his head to catch a glimpse of that red light in the corner, a hand grabbed his cheek and forced him to look back up. Sam tried to speak, tried to ask what was happening, but something moved through his veins, slithered through his body, forcing him into silence.

His blood was on fire.

The voice shushed him. “It’ll be over soon. Just drink.”

Something metallic and thick dropped onto Sam’s tongue. It made his blood sing and his mind panic. 

“Drink. It will make you feel better.”

The red light flared. Sam saw the outline of an arm, the middle darkened by a long cut, the blood dripping down onto his face. Sam saw Ruby, her black eyes a hole in the universe, watching him as her blood filled his mouth. 

Blood. It was blood. The sanguis, the thing he had been drinking for months-- the thing that had made him strong, had made him sick-- was blood. 

Demon blood. 

Sam bucked up, trying to break free, trying to move his face out of the stream of blood, but Ruby’s grip held him down. The blood coated his tongue and covered his lips but Sam did not drink.

“Don’t fight it, Sammy,” Ruby said. “You’ll save us all, you’ll see.”

Sam stared into the dark pits that were Ruby’s eyes. Sam held her gaze and let her think she triumphed. She lowered her arm and leaned over Sam’s face. She moved closer and closer and Sam waited, waited until she was a breath away.

He spat the blood back in her face.

“It’s _Sam_ ," he hissed.

⁂

In all of his long existence, Castiel always followed his mission. Sometimes that mission was not as righteous a cause he was led to believe, but he always tried to do the right thing. Once again Castiel had a mission--one he chose for himself-- but, after only a few days alongside Dean, he felt himself waver.

"Do you want to go in?" Castiel asked.

They stood before Lawrence. Carts and travelling merchants, eager to return to work after a lean winter, pushed past them and forced Dean and Castiel off the road. Dean stared at the town entrance, at the low crumbling wall that did nothing to keep anything out or in, and did not reply.

"I'll wait here if you wish," Castiel said.

It was true. He would wait. Castiel could not be sure that Dean would believe him. Dean glanced at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. Castiel could not read his expression.

"No. I, uh--" Dean shuffled his feet, sending a rock flying onto the road. A passing traveller glared at him. Dean never noticed her. "Not without Sam."

"Of course." Castiel lay his hand on Dean's shoulder. He was not sure if that was what he should do, but he felt he needed to do something to ease Dean's tension. "There's another town a few days from here. We'll rest there."

Dean nodded. He never shrugged off Castiel’s hand. If anything, Dean moved closer.

⁂

Their packs laden with as many provisions they could fit, Dean and Castiel exited the last town they would see for a long while. Spring was in full bloom, the last of winter’s snow melted away, and Castiel could not help but admire the life of it all. The path they walked was littered with flowers. Some flowers were tightly closed bulbs, not ready to come out yet, while others were in full bloom, eager to show their true colours at the first hint of light. Castiel squatted to observe a bee dancing over a blue flower. He smiled when the bee bumped into the bud next to it as it flew away. 

Castiel felt Dean behind him, felt his gaze on the back of his head. Castiel had grown used to Dean's presence over the last few weeks. His company was a warm feeling, blooming like those flowers, in Castiel’s chest. 

“Fascinating creations, bees,” Castiel said. “Their hard work is what allows these plants to grow. The workers are all female and--” Castiel stood, his knees creaking with the movement. “Forgive me. I’m rambling.”

That was what Balthazar called it: rambling. Balthazar would listen, for a while, but he just did not have the same appreciation as Castiel for the life in the Realm. Sometimes Balthazar stopped Castiel because he could tell that some of the things Castiel said were on the edge of blasphemy. The Celestial commander was not supposed to admire the Realm. He was supposed to disturb it. Castiel, however, could not help but find beauty in the Realm’s colour. It was such a contrast to the sterile white light of Heaven.

“Oh no.” Dean stood next to Castiel and bumped their shoulders together. “Ramble on, my friend.”

There was a light in Castiel’s eyes Dean had never seen while they were in the Capital. Dean saw flashes of it-- longer and brighter the further they moved from the castle-- and he wanted to see more of it.

“You must think I’m a--” Castiel rubbed his chin. “A ‘nerd.’”

“A giant nerd,” Dean said. “Pretty sure that’s why you and Sam get along.” 

As soon as he said the name Dean’s whole mood changed. Castiel leaned his shoulder into Dean’s, the slight contact giving them both comfort. Neither of them dared to do anything more than that. 

“We’ll get him back.” Castiel’s soft words were full of conviction.

“I know,” Dean said. He did not sound as convinced but he lifted the corner of his mouth in an attempt to smile. “Then you two can nerd out about bees and flowers and stuff all the time.”

“I--” Castiel swallowed the words he wanted to say. It was getting harder and harder to keep them in check. “Yes. Of course we will.”

Dean never noticed Castiel’s hesitation.

⁂

“Do you ever sleep?” Dean asked.

They had set up camp for the night. Dean laid out their one bedroll while Castiel coaxed a small fire to life. It was their last chance for proper rest. The footpaths had become game trails. The plants and flowers had become tall grasses and towering trees. They were on the edge of wild country, where the threat of wild animals and wilder Creatures would hound their every step.

“On occasion,” Castiel said, peering beyond their small circle of light and straining his ears to find any possible threat, “if I feel the need.”

“Okay. Is this one of those occasions?”

Castiel turned around at Dean’s tone. Dean knelt beside the bedroll, his eyes wide and bright in the firelight. 

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked.

“Nothing, really. Just uh--” Dean took a deep breath and stared Castiel directly in the eye. “It been-- what?-- almost a month and you haven’t taken a chance to rest. You keep saying you’ll wake me up for my watch shift but you never do and--”

“I’ve already told you I don’t need sleep--”

Dean lowered his voice, gruff like Castiel. “‘--Like you humans.’” Dean waved a dismissive hand and returned his voice to normal. “Whatever, dude. You were definitely sleeping back in my room at the tavern. I’m pretty sure that was the last time.”

“That was an unprecedented incident,” Castiel said.

At least, that was what Castiel told himself. However, he could not deny that, over the last few days, his feet felt heavier with each step and his mind felt slower than usual. He figured if he ignored it enough, he would no longer notice the sensation. Castiel thought he handled it well, but Dean noticed the signs of fatigue. 

“Sure it was, buddy,” Dean said. “Either way, you said this is our last chance for proper rest. Shouldn’t you try, at least? I mean, if you’re gonna be watching out for my ass, I’d rather you do it rested.” Dean saw Castiel’s resolve waver in those last few words. He pushed a little further. “C’mon, man. Do it for me?”

There it was. The one thing Dean could say to make Castiel relent. Not that he would admit that was the reason he walked over to the bedroll Dean so helpfully indicated for him. 

“Don’t worry, Cas,” Dean said as he took up vigil by the fire, “I won’t let any nasty little rabbits disturb you.” He turned and watched Castiel sink into the pillow with closed eyes. Dean's tone became less teasing and more serious. “Or anything.”

Castiel was already asleep. He dreamed. He dreamed of Creatures, of fire, of the Metatron laughing at the bloodied feathers on his hands. He dreamed of the day he lost Balthazar, of falling, of failure. He dreamed of everything that went wrong, everything that could happen, and everything he feared.

It was light when the dreams became too much. Dreams. They were the reason Castiel denied his need for sleep.

“Hey,” Dean said from beside the long-cold fire. When Castiel turned to see him, Dean’s face was understanding. “Looks like you needed that rest after all.”

Castiel pushed his hair back, pretending he was not covered in sweat, and glared at the tangled blanket wrapped around his legs. The sound of boots in the grass made Castiel look up in time to see Dean kneel beside Castiel. Dean’s hand twitched, reaching out to Castiel, before he crossed his arms and tucked his hands under his armpits.

“Nightmares, huh?” Castiel nodded to Dean’s question, knowing there was no denying it. Dean licked his lips and peered at Castiel for a long moment before adding, “I get them, too.” 

“I see,” Castiel said. He reached down to untangle his legs. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nope,” Dean said. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Right. Let’s get moving.” 

⁂

The snarls of unseen dogs followed them through the forest. The thick undergrowth slowed their progress and the high canopy turned day into night. The people who traversed this area were the brave, the foolish, and the desperate. Castiel, at varying times in his life, had been all three. 

The forest was the last line of defence to keep anyone from venturing too close to Heaven. Castiel remembered its creation, remembered how the trees twisted and mutated as they grew high in the sky. He remembered flying above it on his missions in the Realm. He remembered stumbling his way through it when he first fell from Heaven. He did not, however, remember hellhounds. 

A loud howl came from Castiel’s left, a sound much too close for comfort. Dean scanned the forest clearing, his eyes wide as he searched for the source of the howl. Even though a full day had passed, they never stopped to make camp, too busy feeling the hot breath of unseen dogs at their feet. Castiel could see the toll fatigue took on Dean’s body but there was nothing that could be done. The hounds were closing in.

“That’s not a good sign, is it?” Dean asked, his voice a wavering whisper.

Castiel grabbed Dean’s arm. “Stay close to me.”

“No arguments there.” Dean pressed against Castiel’s side, shoulder to shoulder. “What are these things?”

Another howl, closer this time, made Dean wince. Castiel hoped his presence would keep Dean calm. 

“Hellhounds.”

“What?” Dean's high-pitched question prompted many dog-like whines all around them. Dean cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Those dog things you told us about? Like the _invisible_ dog things?”

“Yes.” Castiel watched the shadows move. They were surrounded. “Be prepared to run.”

Castiel patted Dean’s shoulder and nodded at Dean. Dean licked his lips and nodded back. In unison, they drew their swords. They stood, back to back, the gleam off Castiel’s sword hinting at the number before them. Sight was useless in this situation, so Castiel closed his eyes and listened.

“Cas-- Casti-- Castiel.”

Castiel opened his eyes. There was nothing to see but the forest. The voice came from every direction-- echoed off every tree-- as each unseen hellhound spoke at once. 

“What-- What is--?” Dean could not complete the question before the voice spoke anew.

“Aw, look at that. Taking your pet human out on a walk, are we? How sweet.” The voice dripped with disgust. “Now, now, Castiel. What are you doing all the way out here?” The longer the voice spoke, the easier it became to understand. 

“Heaven’s using hellhounds now?” Castiel reached back with his free hand, touching Dean’s elbow. Castiel needed him to remain still. 

“Only in special circumstances,” the Metatron said though the army of dogs, “and you, my favourite punching bag, are a _very_ special circumstance.”

“It sounds as if you weren’t expecting me,” Castiel said.

The dogs, for one brief heart-stopping moment, were silent. Castiel spoke to delay the inevitable attack, to give himself another moment to find a way for Dean to escape. He never believed he would be correct.

“Fine. I didn't think you'd come. So what? Who doesn’t love a little twist?” 

“You know me,” Castiel said, seeking out the place where the voice was faint, “I never do what’s expected.”

The Metatron laughed, a terrifying sound, but Castiel found what he needed. Castiel moved him and Dean in a circle, slowly, carefully, knowing that the Metatron watched them from every angle, until Dean faced the two largest trees in the forest. Right in between those two trees the Metatron's voice was the weakest. Castiel pushed against Dean’s arm until he was pointing at it. Dean pressed back. He understood.

“I suppose so,” the Metatron said, “but you’re not as inscrutable as you think.”

The sole warning was a howl.

Castiel swung his sword, hitting nothing, and shouted at Dean to run. Dean shouted back but Castiel could not hear him over the dogs’ snarls. Castiel glanced over his shoulder, watched as each frantic slash of Dean's sword brought forth dark blood and pained growls from the empty air. Castiel looked back in front of him and realized not a single hellhound came his way. Dean was the target.

Every last hound converged on Dean. By the time Castiel realized what was happening, by the time Castiel turned around, he had already lost Dean. The hellhounds ripped into Dean’s armour, claw marks appearing from nowhere, and Dean fell to the ground. 

Castiel yelled Dean’s name, slashing his sword through the unseen horde in front of him. He watched, helpless, as the hellhounds dragged Dean further and further away. Castiel did not give up. His sword connected with bodies and he tripped over countless others but, no matter what he did, he could not reach Dean.

The sensation of paws on Castiel’s shoulders stopped his pursuit. The feeling of hot breath on his face made Castiel, for the first time in his long existence, fear death.

“You really care about this one, don’t you?” The hellhound slammed Castiel into the ground, the Metatron’s voice coming from its mouth. “Now _that_ is a twist.”

Dean screamed, the sound laced with pain. Castiel fought against the hellhound holding him down. Its claws dug into his shoulders, not allowing him to break free. 

The hellhound pushed closer to Castiel, spittle falling into his face as the Metatron said, softly, almost lovingly, “Be seeing you, Castiel.”

All at once, the weight pressing down on Castiel was gone, the hounds' snarls cut off completely, and the forest quieted. Castiel stared at the green leaves above him and tried to catch his breath. 

“Cas? I think--” Dean’s quiet, ragged voice spurred Castiel into action. “I think I’m bleeding.”

Castiel found Dean lying in a pile of moss, his armour scratched and clothes ripped beyond repair. Dark, black hellhound blood was splattered all over his body. Castiel checked Dean over, the hellhound blood making it hard to see properly, but his armour had taken most of the impact. 

Most of it. Somehow, one of the hellhounds found a weak spot in Dean’s armour, ripping the shoulder piece completely off. Another hellhound-- or the same one-- bit directly into Dean’s shoulder. 

“You certainly are bleeding,” Castiel said, setting his hand against the wound, “let me--”

Before Castiel could call upon his power, Dean slapped Castiel's hand away. It was a weak hit, really, but the surprise made Castiel pull back.

“No,” Dean said.

“Dean. You’re hurt. I can--”

“No.” 

“You need medical attention.”

“I got herbs in my pack. I can heal the old fashioned way.”

“Or you could let me heal you right now. Instantly.”

“I said no.” Dean clutched his shoulder and sat up, groaning with the effort. He stared at Castiel, stubbornness in every part of his face. “Are you gonna grab me a bandage or do I gotta do that myself?”

Thankfully their packs were where they left them, undisturbed at the base of a tree. Dean walked Castiel through the process of patching up the wound. Castiel hated every second of it, hated every time Dean winced, hated every time he grimaced in pain, because Castiel could take away his pain. Each time Castiel offered his healing, Dean gave an increasingly angry “no.”

“Cas, I’m fine,” Dean said. “I’m not passed out. I’m not even dizzy. I’m _fine._ ”

Castiel tightened the bandage with a little more force than necessary. Dean failed to suppress a wince. 

“I see that,” Castiel said. He picked up both packs and handed Dean his sword. “We still have a way to go from here.”

Castiel walked further into the forest. He did not look back. He did not have to. Dean followed him.


	18. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be some light, one-sided Meg/Cas. She needed some reason to be so helpful. Cas never figures it out.

Sam awoke in a different room from the last one. Sam sat up on the hard stone slab and blinked into the harsh yellow glow. A copper taste lingered in his mouth. 

Sam rubbed his eyes and tried to bring the shapes in the room into focus. Sam could see another raised platform, just like the one Sam sat upon, directly beside him. After blinking away the film in his eyes, he saw a lumpy silhouette laying atop it. Sam faced it, trying to decide if the shape was part of the platform or something else.

His head pounded. He held his head, feeling the large welt under his hairline. His hand came away bloody. 

“Hey, kid.”

Sam blinked and looked over at the other platform. The silhouette turned out to be another person. Sam wondered if he should worry about that, but it was hard to think through the yellow haze.

“Kid? You alright?” The other person’s voice was rough, deep, and masculine. It carried an authority that made Sam want to reply.

“Been better,” Sam said, his voice distant even to himself. 

“How did someone as young as you end up in a place like this?”

Sam stared into the yellow. He swayed in place and tried to remember how he ended up here.

“A girl,” Sam eventually replied.

The man chuckled. It sounded strange in this place. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“Where are we?” Sam asked.

“That must be some blow to the head,” the man said. 

He started another sentence but it was cut off by a cough. It was the kind of cough that racked the whole body. It was the kind of cough that seemed to have no end. It was the cough of the sick. Eventually, the man regained control and spat on the floor. Sam smelled blood.

“You know,” the man said, “I had a son. Two, actually. Don’t know where they are these days. Kinda lost track of time. Of me. Hope they’re alright.”

“Okay.” 

Sam did not know what to do. From what he could see through the yellow haze, the room had no doorway. There was smooth stone as far as he could see. He pressed a hand against his head wound. It bled.

“Huh. Haven’t thought about them in a while,” the man said. “Guess you being a kid and all made me remember. Don’t remember much these days. When I do, they tend to rip it outta my head.”

“They?”

“The Demons. C’mon kid, you really forgot where you are?”

“Guess so.”

“Huh. Lucky you.”

Sam did not feel lucky. In fact, he felt sick. He leaned over the side of the platform just before his stomach decided to expel everything within it. Blood and bile. That was all he had.

When Sam sat up the man was staring at him. Sam could see better now. The man looked as if the last time he ate a proper meal was ten years ago and his grey beard was scraggly and long. His eyes shone through the yellow light, clear and proud. 

“Sorry. Forgot my manners. Haven’t spoken to anyone in a...” The man paused. “A very long time.” The man straightened his back, his baggy clothes fluttering with the movement. He held out a hand made of bone. “Nice to meet you, kid. My name’s John.”

⁂

The trees were shorter and the path Dean and Castiel walked became clearer. Dean was never so happy to see a shrub in his life. He trailed a few steps behind Castiel, clutching at his shoulder. 

Castiel was angry. Dean knew that, with the silent treatment and all, but it never changed his mind. Sure, his arm hurt if he twisted it the wrong way but Dean knew he was fine. There was no reason for Castiel to use his power-- to use his life force-- on a little dog bite, even if the blood which seeped through his bandage was a strange dark colour. Dean was fine. He could walk. He could talk. He had Sam’s herbs. He was fine. 

They continued through the forest, their surroundings becoming friendlier by the second. Dean’s lack of sleep caught up to him. He lost track of how long he was awake, but he knew that the next step could be the last one before he fell from his feet.

“Cas.” Dean did not expect Castiel to hear him. His voice was quieter than intended. Castiel stopped, his back still to Dean. “I just need to rest a bit.”

Dean collapsed. He was aware of Castiel calling out his name, of being caught before he landed on the ground, of being maneuvered into Castiel’s lap, but he could not focus on it. Instead, he harnessed every last piece of strength he had to speak.

“Don’t you dare heal me,” Dean said.

“Why not?” 

Dean’s vision wavered but he could see Castiel’s face, could see the lines of anger and frustration on his face but those eyes-- those blue, blue eyes Dean still managed to admire even on the edge of passing out-- betrayed his concern. 

“Because-- Because--” Dean tried to answer. Castiel looked so sad. Dean reached out, placing a hand on Castiel’s cheek. “Because the last time you healed someone you almost-- I almost lost you.” Dean hoped he was making sense because his words felt heavy on his tongue. “Don’t wanna do that again.”

“You promised me you would live,” Castiel said. “I will make sure you do.”

“Last resort. _Please_ make it a last resort.” Dean clutched Castiel's face, pulling him closer. “Please.”

Castiel closed his eyes and placed his hand over Dean’s own. He opened his eyes and Dean could see the exact moment Castiel relented. “You are a stubborn fool, Dean Winchester."

Dean laughed at that. Or, at least, he tried too. “Takes one to know one.” 

Dean closed his eyes. Castiel lay Dean down gently on to the forest floor. He checked the wound, cursing Dean’s stubbornness one again when he saw the dark blood and purple bruises. Castiel reached out his hand and held it over the wound. He stared down at it for an endless moment. Another curse escaped Castiel’s lips before he pulled his hand away and reached into Dean’s pack. What a great time for Castiel to learn to heal wounds the human way.

⁂

Castiel carried Dean the rest of the way through the forest. As soon as he felt the breeze on his face, Castiel sighed in relief. 

“I wish you could see this,” Castiel said to Dean in his arms. “I think you would like it.” 

A gull cried overhead as Castiel stepped out of the final circle of trees and onto the waiting sand. Tears pricked at Castiel’s eyes as he stared out over the glittering water, the setting sun low on the horizon 

“It’s the ocean,” Castiel continued. “I would call it a big puddle, but it's so much more than that.” Castiel breathed deeply, taking in the scent of salt in the air. “I missed it.” Castiel made sure the packs were secure on his back and absolutely sure Dean was safe in his arms before he moved forward. “I’ll show you when you wake up.” Castiel stepped forward. “I wish I had time to teach you how to swim. I liked teaching you things. You were a good student. You all were.”

Castiel walked. He walked until the sun set and he could no longer see his feet. He wanted to walk more, but he did not want to risk Dean in any way. Castiel placed Dean down on a soft patch of sand. He lit a small fire, using supplies from his pack and driftwood from nearby, and set the bedroll. He tucked Dean into it-- it could get cold at night, even in the summer-- and made sure Dean's bandages were clean.

That was all he could do. It was not enough. Castiel leaned on a nearby boulder and watched the moon rise. The stars blinked to life one by one. Their light shimmered in the ocean waves.

“It is beautiful, don’t you think?” Castiel reached out and checked that Dean was breathing. He was. Of course he was. He promised. “I’m not supposed to think that. I’m supposed to destroy cities and terrorize humans in a holy war they know nothing about. But you humans-- You humans are all so"-- Castiel looked down at Dean, watching the rise and fall of his chest, and counted his breaths-- “beautiful.”

Castiel swallowed, his throat dry. The fire crackled, swaying in the light ocean breeze. As long as the ocean remained calm, Castiel could keep that fire, keep that light. He did not want to douse it. Not tonight.

“I wasn’t supposed to care.” Castiel licked his lips, tasting salt. “When I fell, I told myself I wouldn’t get involved, that I wouldn’t get invested. Humans have such short lives. You’ll grow old long before me, you see. You’ll live your whole life and you’ll die and I’ll be alone again.” Castiel closed his eyes. “I’m tired of being alone, Dean. I’m so tired of it.”

The waves lapped at the shore. The rhythm sounded like a heartbeat.

“But it’s okay. I’m used to it. You aren’t. That’s okay, too. I’ll make sure you get your brother back. Then--” Castiel lolled his head toward Dean, unable to muster the energy to open his eyes. “I do what I must. I pray one day you’ll understand why.” 

The wind picked up. The blast of air blew out the dwindling fire. Castiel did nothing to shield himself from the chill. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel whispered, “sleep well.”

⁂

“Her name is Meg. You’ll-- Actually I doubt you’ll like her much. Or she you. Just try to stay civil. For me?”

Back aching from sleeping against the boulder, sweat pooling in his lower back from the hot sun overhead, and his head aching from squinting against the bright light of the sun, Castiel refused to stop. He walked. He had to keep walking. He was so close.

“She saved my life, you know. I wasn’t that grateful at the time. I think I am now. Maybe. I mean, I wouldn’t be talking to you like this if I hadn’t survived.” Castiel looked down at Dean. Dean still breathed, his heart still beat, but he never opened his eyes, not once, since the forest. “Perhaps I am losing my mind. Like Joshua. You know he never knows what era he’s in? That must be disorienting.” 

Dean never replied. He remained still, as always. Talking to Dean might have been pointless-- or maybe it was not-- but it made the long walk much easier. When he spoke to Dean, Castiel's steps became lighter.

“That must be it. Losing my mind is the only explanation for why I wouldn’t heal you. Why would I even listen to that?” Castiel stumbled over a buried piece of driftwood. He nearly lost Dean’s pack in the recovery, but he kept a secure grip on Dean's body. “My apologies. I’m a little tired.” He checked Dean’s bandage and sighed in relief when it looked clean. “I’m fine. We’re fine.” He walked. “I could heal you. You’d be angry but, well, you’re always a little angry. It wouldn’t matter how you felt in the long term anyway but--” Castiel paused, unearthing another hidden branch with his boot. He stepped over this one. “I want to respect your wishes. I don’t want you to be angry with me. I don’t want you to hate me.”

The beach appeared all the same to Castiel through the glare of sunlight. He wondered if he made any progress at all. 

“You probably will anyway. That’s fine. It may be easier for you that way. That’s fine.” 

The sand rolled ever forward. The gulls cried overhead. The waves crashed in the distance. The sun beamed downward. It never changed. Castiel figured this was his punishment: to endlessly wander the white sands never able to reach his destination. Castiel did not mind being punished. He did, however, think it was unfair to Dean.

With all his energy focused upon putting one foot in front of the other, Castiel missed the change in scene. In fact, he did not believe he found it until he was near the front door. The cabin was much bigger than Castiel remembered. Once he realized where he was, all his fight left him. He fell to his knees. Castiel barely had enough presence of mind to push Dean out of the way before he fell.

⁂

Dean awoke to a throbbing head and the taste of salt in his mouth. He opened his eyes to a roof over his head, a mattress under his back, and a woman with long, wavy dark hair glaring down at him. Dean's head ached and his mouth was dry and it was clear she was not going to stop trying to kill him with her eyes.

“Can I help you?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “You can tell me what’s so special about you.”

Dean was far too confused to process the amount of hate thrown at him from a woman he has never met. Dean needed water. Dean needed to figure out if the itch on his shoulder was a bad sign. Dean needed to figure out where he ended up.

Dean needed to find Castiel.

“Uh, nothing?” Dean replied.

“Exactly!” The woman threw up her hands. “So why the fuck do you have Clarence all tied up in knots?” 

“Clarence?”

“Ugh. Whatever. He’ll wanna know you’re up.” 

The woman walked away, her boots heavy on the wooden floor. Dean waited for the sound to fade away before he sat up. 

To Dean’s surprise, it was an easy effort. The room was made of wood, sparsely furnished with a trunk at the end of the bed and a table beside it. Dean drank greedily from the glass of water on the table, the liquid running down the sides of his mouth. He wiped his face clean with a bare arm and noticed he wore nothing but a pair of pants. He ran a hand down his torso, purple bruises already starting to heal, and checked his shoulder. It was expertly wrapped in layers of bandages and, when Dean pressed against the fabric, it did not hurt. 

He returned the glass to the table. The table was littered with jars and tins of poultices and herbs-- some Dean recognized, more he did not. Long dark thread weaved around the jars, the kind used to stitch a wound, and other medical implements Dean had only seen in Sam’s books laid around it. Dean rubbed his shoulder. Someone must have patched him up. Someone who knew what they were doing. 

Dean swung his legs around and placed his bare feet on the floor. He stood, bracing himself, but the expected wave of vertigo never came. He was well on his way to being healed. He still had the bruises. He still had bandages. That meant Castiel kept his word. It also meant Dean was out for a while. 

The door opened while Dean contemplated his situation. Castiel appeared in the doorway, the dark shadows on his face melting away when he saw Dean on his feet. 

“Dean!” 

Castiel closed the distance between them and did the last thing Dean ever thought he would do. 

Castiel hugged Dean.

Despite his surprise, Dean eased into Castiel, falling into him as if they always did that. Dean felt the soft fabric of Castiel’s shirt under his palms, smelled the thunder Castiel always seemed to carry around and the salt in his hair. Dean felt Castiel tremble in his arms, felt the way Castiel gripped tightly to his back, and noticed the way Castiel buried his face in Dean’s neck and released a long held, much needed breath. 

“You’re awake.” Castiel breathed the words into Dean’s hair. He pulled back, holding Dean at arm’s length and looked Dean over. “Are okay? Does anything hurt?”

Dean was suddenly and acutely aware that he was half-naked. “I feel great, considering.” 

“Good.” Castiel stepped away. “Join us when you are ready. I managed to find some food for you.” 

Castiel was almost out of the room before Dean called out, “What about you, Cas? Are you okay?”

When Castiel turned around, Dean noticed the dark circles under his eyes. Dean saw the fading sunburn that covered his face and disappeared under his shirt. Dean noticed the hunch in his shoulders, the uncertainty in his eyes.

“Better now,” Castiel said. Dean believed him. “It has been a difficult week.” 

Castiel was already gone by the time Dean’s brain caught up to his mouth. “Hold on. Week?”

Dean followed him out the door. Instead of finding Castiel, Dean ran into the woman he saw when he woke up. 

“Well,” the woman drawled, “I think that’s the happiest Clarence has ever been.” She narrowed her eyes, her face cold. “How about that.”

“Hello to you, too,” Dean said. 

She made a noise of disgust and turned her back on Dean, revealing a modest kitchen. She swiped the nearest bottle from the shelves. All of them were stocked with every kind of alcohol imaginable and nothing else. She plopped down at the table, propped her feet up on the table, popped the cork, and drank directly from the bottle. She threw the cork at the wall in front of her. It bounced to the top of a large pile of broken glass. 

“Meg,” Castiel said as he entered the room, “you promised to be civil.”

“I _am_ being civil,” she said. “Patched him up, didn’t I?”

“That was you?” Dean made no effort to hide the shock in his voice.

“Yeah.” Meg rolled her eyes. “Got a lot of experience patching up ungrateful morons who don’t know their limits.” She tipped her head back to see Castiel. “Don’t I, Clarence?”

“Well, I’m thanking you now,” Castiel said.

Meg snorted. “Don’t.”

Castiel sat beside Meg and pushed a bundle of fabric across the table to Dean. “This is the best I could find for you. I’m afraid Meg doesn’t receive many guests.”

Dean buttoned up the light cotton shirt too long in the arms and pulled on the slightly too small boots. He bit into the hardest, most stale looking loaf of bread he had in his life and chewed it gratefully. Half the bread was gone before Dean looked up to see Castiel watching him fondly and Meg staring at him in complete and utter disgust. 

“Gross,” Meg said. “Is this what you have to look forward to?”

“It’s not all bad,” Castiel said. 

“Whatever, Clarence.”

Dean narrowed his eyes as the two spoke and noticed the ease in their movements around each other. He noticed how Meg’s biting words were undermined by the relieved glances she gave Castiel out of the corner of her eye. As far as Dean could tell, Castiel was oblivious to them. 

“Wow, Cas,” Dean said. He glared at Meg. “I thought you didn’t have any friends.”

Meg choked on her drink. Castiel inclined his head.

“We’re-- We’re not _friends,_ ” Meg spluttered.

“Yes. We’re--” Castiel looked towards Meg. “How did you put it?”

“Mortal enemies.”

“Ah, yes. That.” Castiel nodded to Dean. “Besides, I have you. Do I not?”

If Dean had a drink himself, he would have choked on it, too. "Yeah, yeah. Course you do."

There was something sad behind Castiel's smile, but Dean was too busy trying to hide his flushed cheeks to notice it. Meg, however, did not miss a thing. Dean missed the glare she gave him; Castiel missed her raised eyebrows. Meg could not secure their attention. She finished her drink and eyed the empty glass.

The bottle hit the wall. The shattered pieces fell like rain onto the pile below. Dean ducked. Meg smirked. 

"Need I remind you," Meg said as she grabbed a new bottle, "that we're mortal enemies because you're the reason I'm in this hellhole instead of, well, Hell."

"No, you do not need to remind me," Castiel said. "You told me many times since I've returned."

"Good." Meg returned to her seat. Both boots hit the table with a loud, deliberate thump. "Try to remember that, _Angel_."

"Right," Castiel said softly.

Castiel pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. Everything Meg had said up until that final word failed to make him lose his composure. Now that she had finally done it, she took a long drink before she looked at him again. She did not hide her face fast enough. Dean saw that flash behind her eyes, even if he did not understand everything it held. 

“I’m just saying that I gave up a lot to save your stupid ass and you seem pretty determined to throw it away.” Meg cradled the bottle in her lap, rolling it back and forth between her palms.

“I already told you my reasoning.”

“I know.” Meg's stare felt exactly like a dagger in Dean’s side. “I don’t like it.”

“I never asked you to.”

On the other side of the table, Dean blinked at the Celestial and the woman he was rapidly concluding was a Demon who bickered like friends-- or mortal enemies-- of years, and wondered what he was missing. 

“What are you guys talking about?” Dean asked.

Both Castiel and Meg jumped at the sound of Dean’s voice. Meg recovered quickly, rolling her eyes and giving Castiel a pointed stare. Castiel ignored her and focused his attention on Dean. He sat there for a long moment before deciding on what to say.

“Meg is going to send us to Hell.”


	19. Home

No matter how many times Sam circled the room, he could find no exit. His hand slid across the stone walls as he tried again and again. The ache in his head grew worse the longer he stared into the yellow haze.

"There's no way out kid." John never moved from his stone slab. "Trust me. I've been trying for years."

Sam did not pay him any mind. He stopped in the corner and flattened his palm against the stone on either side. It was completely smooth. He pushed against it, feeling no pores, no jagged prices of rock. No human hands made this room.

"You're not gonna find a door unless they want you to find one," John said. "I guess being trapped in some kinda dungeon is one of your fears. 'Cause it ain't one of mine."

The comment made Sam twist his head toward John, who appeared to Sam as little more than a pile of cloth. "My fears?"

"Yeah. That's what Hell is all about. They take your fears and use 'em to torture you." 

"How do you know this?" 

"I've been here for a long time." The fabric of John's sleeves rustled as he wrapped his arms around himself. "And I always see fire."

Sam resumed his walk around the room. He bit back his next question. Instead, he took the opportunity to observe John. The man hardly moved and his emaciated form gave him trouble whenever he tried. He appeared tiny, unthreatening, from his unmoving place on his slab. However, there were moments, when John looked Sam directly in the eye, that suggested there was far more to this man than how he appeared. It begged a question, one Sam knew he had to figure out.

If this place was a representation of his fears then who, exactly, was John?

"You ever gonna give me your name kid?"

Nothing in the room helped Sam. He settled back onto his stone slab. The wound on his head stopped bleeding but the scab Sam felt against his fingers suggested that he needed herbs. Not that he could find some. There was nothing in the room. There was nothing but yellow haze, stone, and John.

"No," Sam said.

"Oh, come on. Why not? It's not like we got much else to keep us busy."

"I've learned not to give people--of whom I know nothing about-- anything." Sam leaned back and remembered black eyes. "Not again."

"Stars above, kid. You sound like an old man already."

"Feel like one."

Tiredness ached in every bone when Sam closed his eyes. He could not remember if falling asleep was a good or bad thing when he had a head wound.

"What's got you so jaded, huh?" John's voice kept Sam from falling under. "So your girl gave you trouble. It happens to the best of us. Don't you have any family?"

As Sam lay down and closed his eyes, the yellow haze descended upon him. It did not take him over, not completely, and an image of a brown haired man with green eyes and a cocky smile flashed through his head. Even as an image, that face managed to protect Sam.

"Yeah," Sam said, on the edge of sleep, "a brother."

When Sam closed his eyes, John sat up, the movement quick and natural. He never groaned or clutched at his side like every time before. His eyes shone in the yellow light.

"That so," John said. "What about a mom? Dad?"

"As I said--" The words tumbled off of Sam's tongue as he went to sleep, unbidden and unconscious. "I have a brother."

As Sam succumbed to sleep, John straightened his shoulders and watched Sam. John's face was calm and impassive but his eyes were wide and calculating. The yellow haze closed in.

⁂

Waking up to the sound of birds and crashing waves, Dean rolled out of bed pleasantly alone. The last few days, he woke up to Meg scowling down at him and ready to poke her fingers into every tender wound. She was far more forceful than needed but, when Dean stretched his arms over his head and felt nothing but the warm pull of his muscles, he had to admit that Meg knew how to heal a wound. There was not a single chance he would tell her that, however.

Dean dressed and walked into the kitchen. Meg sat at the table with a bottle, as always. She never seemed to get drunk-- one had to wonder if Demons could-- but Dean never saw her consume anything that was not fermented liquid. Meg acknowledged Dean’s entrance with a nod that managed to come across as sarcastic before she continued to stare at the wall. 

“What? No poking at my bruises today?” Dean asked.

“Nah,” Meg said, “you’re all healed up now. Which means…” She trailed off, her mind somewhere far away as she took a long drink. 

Dean squinted at Meg, taking in her subdued mood. He was used to a lot more bite from her. “Which means what, exactly?”

“Why don’t you ask Clarence? He’s the man with the plan, after all.” 

Meg finished off the last of her drink and, in the same movement, threw the bottle at the wall. Dean had to sidestep to avoid the bounce of the shattered glass. There was the bite, the anger, Dean expected from Meg. For once, Dean was not the cause of it. 

“Right.” Dean eyed Meg’s hands, eyed her white knuckles as she gripped the table’s edge. “And where would Cas be?”

“Probably sitting on the shore somewhere, staring off into the distance thinking deep thoughts.” Meg shrugged, appearing indifferent, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “He does that a lot.”

Dean nodded, not caring if Meg noticed, and headed toward the door. 

“Dean.”

The sound of his name froze him in his tracks. Meg never called Dean by his name. Meg's dark eyes bored a hole into his head. Dean felt like a rabbit pinned to the wall. Meg kept her eyes on him, unmoving and unblinking, for an endless moment. Meg sighed and blinked, her back curling as she returned to her usual slouch. 

“I don’t get it,” she muttered into her lap. “I mean you’re just... human.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Dean said.

Meg’s head snapped up. Apparently, she forgot Dean was still in the room. She made a disgusted sound and waved a lazy hand in Dean’s direction. Dean rolled his eyes and opened the door-- because he wanted to, not because Meg dismissed him-- and stepped out into the sunlight. Meg’s eyes flashed black as she watched him go, a thoughtful finger pressed to her lips. 

He did indeed find Castiel sitting on the shore, staring off into the distance. Castiel had rolled up his pant legs so his bare feet could feel the lapping waves as the sun-warmed water reached the shore. He leaned back on his hands with his face tilted toward the sun, the rays deepening his new tan. He wore no armour and Dean could see, through the light fabric of his white shirt, two muted red lines on Castiel’s back. As he approached, Dean noticed all of those things but, somehow, completely missed the vast ocean before him.

“Hey, buddy.” Dean dropped down beside Castiel, crossing his legs under him to keep his boots dry. “I think you pissed Meg off.”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel’s smile was brighter than the sun in the cloudless sky. “I think you are correct.”

“I mean, all I gotta do is breathe around her but you?” Dean lightly punched Castiel’s shoulder. “What’d you do?”

Castiel’s smile faltered and he did not answer. He looked out over the ocean, his eyes focused on the sky. Dean followed his gaze but he saw nothing more than a few birds flying overhead. They sat in silence, listening to the waves crash ashore. 

“Right over there,” Castiel said, pointing up at the sky. 

“What?” Dean asked.

“That’s where I was created. That’s Heaven.”

A hand over his eyes to shield himself from the bright sunlight, Dean followed the path of Castiel’s outstretched hand. He saw only the sky.

“Dude. There’s nothing there.”

“It appears that way.” Castiel lowered his hand. “It’s hidden. Otherwise, everyone could see Heaven floating in the sky. It's there. It's not something I could forget.” 

“Oh.” Dean stared up at that empty patch of sky. “So that’s your home, then?”

“Home?” Castiel’s head tilted to the side.

“Yeah. Home. The place you were born, or the place your family is, or even just the place you happen to sleep every night.” Dean shrugged. “Depends on the person.”

“I see,” Castiel said. He wrapped his arms around his knees. “I think, by that definition, I don’t have a home.”

Internally, Dean cursed himself. Of course, a guy who was not born, who spent most of his time roaming the Realm, and who was the only Celestial among the humans would feel that way. Castiel’s words were stated plainly, matter-of-fact, and without a hint of self-pity, but Dean’s heart ached at them anyway.

“You can share mine,” Dean said.

Castiel rested his cheek on his knees and looked at Dean. “I don’t understand.”

Neither did Dean. Dean never planned to say those words. Those words just came out of his mouth, no thought behind them before they were given life. Dean rubbed the back of his head, trying to form some kind of explanation.

“I--I mean--” Dean clasped his hands together in his lap to still them. He licked his lips and met Castiel’s curious gaze. Looking into those eyes made Dean’s heart feel many things, many things that he could not name, but it also made him understand his own words. “I mean that, once this is all done, me, you, and Sam should visit Lawrence. I think Ellen would like you. Jo, too, if she stuck around.” 

“Lawrence is your home?” 

“Yeah. But with Sam there.” Dean cleared his throat, muttering out the last words, “And you too, you know. If you want.”

Heat burned Dean’s cheeks as he studied the sand beneath his boots. If he had not looked away, perhaps he would have seen the conflict of emotions pass over Castiel's face. Perhaps he would have noticed Castiel opened his mouth a few times, attempting to reply, but closing it again when he could not find the words. As it was, however, Dean only noticed the silence. 

“Tomorrow,” Castiel said. Dean raised his eyebrows in question and Castiel elaborated, “Tomorrow morning we will enter Hell. The route we must take passes through a place called Purgatory.”

“Purgatory?”

“It’s the place all Creatures of the Night come from and where they go when they die. The All-Father created it as a sort of cage but there are doors within it. My hope is, by entering Hell through it, we will remain unnoticed for as long as possible.”

“Hold on. All monsters-- like all of them-- are in this Purgatory place?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, yeah. Sounds like a nice place to take a stroll.”

“It’s not.” 

Dean gave Castiel an exasperated eye roll, but it was lost on him. Castiel pointed to where he claimed Heaven was, then brought his finger lower until it was near the horizon.

“Purgatory is in a hidden dimension between Heaven,” Castiel said, bringing his hand down until it pointed into the ocean depths, “and Hell. Meg will open the portal to take us there. It will not be easy. If you have any doubts, any hesitations, you best speak them now.”

“I’m with you,” Dean replied immediately. “Once this is all over, the three of us are going to Harvelle’s. Drinks are on me.”

Castiel straightened his back and braced his hands on his knees. He twisted his body toward Dean. Dean turned to face Castiel as well, drawn into his orbit. The long, unbroken stare that followed left Dean with the impression that Castiel was looking for something, something in Dean’s eyes. Dean wondered if he found it.

“You are kind to me,” Castiel said. “I don’t know if I deserve it, but I thank you all the same. In return, I promise to reunite you with your brother and return you both home.” 

There was something there, something in Castiel’s words, that Dean needed to parse out but it was so hard to concentrate, so hard to think, when Castiel was so close. Castiel reached out and cupped Dean’s cheek. Dean watched Castiel, watched as that sad smile crawled across his face, and leaned into the touch. Castiel pulled his hand away, his fingers ghosting along Dean’s jaw, and stood. Dean watched Castiel walk away.


	20. Heretic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed that I've picked up a few new readers. Hello! Happy to have you along!  
> And, of course, shout out to those of you who have been here from the start.  
> <3

“Just so we're clear,” Meg said, “I think your plan is incredibly stupid and you're a moron for doing this.”

“Yes. You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Castiel said.

“Alright. Cool.” 

Meg joined Castiel at the deck railing. The deck did not exist the last time Castiel was at her cabin. When he asked her about it, she shrugged and told Castiel that her exile meant she had a lot of free time. Her goal was to make Castiel feel guilty. It worked.

“You _are_ still going to help me?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah. Course I am.” Meg leaned over the railing and watched the moon’s reflection in the waves. “I can’t believe you’ve been a good influence on me. Gross.”

Castiel hummed. “Does that make you a bad influence on me?”

“Oh, I wish.” Meg tapped a drumbeat on the wood. “The fact that you’re doing what you’re doing says otherwise.”

They fought that morning before Dean woke up. They fought every day, in fact. Meg seemed calm now but the piles of broken bottles all over her kitchen told Castiel it took her the whole day to reach that point. That was okay. Meg had the right to be angry and Castiel was starting to learn that worry, for many people, often manifested as anger.

“Thank you, Meg.”

“Ugh. No. No, no, no.” Meg straightened her back and faced Castiel, both hands held up and splayed wide. “We never did this before and we ain’t doing it now. No matter how much you give me that sad puppy dog look.”

“I am not a puppy dog.”

“You totally are.” Meg leaned forward, one eyebrow arched. “You’re especially puppy eyed around that human of yours. I mean, he’s not bad to look at but I know that doesn’t matter to you.”

Castiel crossed his arms and leaned back. “It doesn’t?”

“Course not. Otherwise, this piece"-- Meg indicated herself, popping out her hip and slapping a hand on her thigh-- “would have been able to convince you to stick around.”

Brow furrowed, Castiel blinked at Meg. “I have no idea what you are saying.”

“I know you don’t.” Meg sighed. “How you even _have_ an ex is beyond me.”

“A lot of persistence on his part.” 

Two centuries passed before Castiel figured out Balthazar was flirting with him. Another century passed before Castiel tried to flirt back. He was awful at it but Balthazar liked it that way. 

Castiel was slow to warm up to people and even slower to find people attractive. He wanted to know someone, inside and out, before he would consider letting them into his life, his heart, his bed. Balthazar was the only one who Castiel let in that far and it did not end well for them. That hurt Castiel, a hurt he could not heal. After that, Castiel had kept everyone at a distance.

Until he met Dean.

“I’ll bet,” Meg said. “So, this human of yours. You really think he’s going to be helpful?”

Castiel wondered that, too. So far, Dean had kept true to his promise in the training grounds and Castiel still intended to hold him to it. The coming days would test the power of Dean’s word. 

“I don’t know,” Castiel said, “but he promised me he would see this through to the end.” 

Bright stars covered the night sky. High above, a peculiar pattern shimmered, hiding Heaven. Castiel stared at it. Somehow, he knew that the Metatron stared back.

⁂

The entire Host filled the throne room, an unbroken circle of Celestial bodies surrounding Castiel at the centre. The Metatron pushed off the Throne of God. His ceremonial robes swished about his feet as he strode to stand before Castiel.

“Kneel,” the Metatron said. 

Behind him, the Host fluttered.

Castiel stood tall. He was broken. He was battered. He was bloody. 

He was not defeated.

“No,” Castiel said.

The single word caused the Host to raise their voices. They twittered like birds. Their wings trembled.

The Metatron took a step closer to Castiel. 

“Kneel,” the Metatron commanded.

“No,” Castiel said again. 

His voice echoed over the sounds of the Host.

The Metatron raised his hands and all noise from the Host cut off. He gestured to someone behind Castiel. Castiel did not have time to react before strong hands gripped his shoulders. 

“I am sorry for this, Cassie. Truly. All you have to do is kneel and this will be over,” Balthazar said, his voice harsh in Castiel’s ear. “Just do what he wants. Stay with me.”

Even Balthazar turned against Castiel. The entire Host, all of them once under his command, stared down at him with hate. 

“Kneel!” the Metatron screeched.

Castiel’s legs trembled with the effort of remaining upright. Balthazar pleaded in his ear, his words soft and sincere, but his hands hard and unyielding. Castiel stared into the face of the false God.

“No.”

The Metatron sighed and made another gesture. Balthazar’s hands became violent, throwing Castiel down onto the hard floor below. All of Balthazar’s anger and disappointment went into that movement. 

Castiel locked his knees. He might have fallen but he did not kneel. Balthazar's boot pressed Castiel's face hard against the floor. Castiel could not move.

“Allow this to be a lesson,” the Metatron raised his voice to the Host, walking along the perimeter of the circle to be sure he was understood, “that disobedience will not be tolerated, that treason will not be heard, and blasphemy will not be spoken by _anyone_.” The Metatron’s feet entered Castiel’s view and remained there. “No matter who you are.” 

At the centre of his being, at his core, Castiel felt a hand. The hand _pulled_. Light forced its way out of his mouth. He coughed and retched. The Metatron bent down to look Castiel in the eye. 

“Let Castiel-- let this _heretic--_ be an example of what happens to traitors of Heaven.” 

The Metatron twisted his wrist and the pull became harsher, more intense. Castiel screamed as the invisible hand gripped around the deepest part of him and wretched light out of his body. The Host gasped when Castiel’s wings manifested, independent of his own will. The feathers, made of black lightning, shimmered with the colour of Heaven. Castiel's wings reflected the very Throne of God. 

Castiel struggled against the weight pushing him down. He tried in vain to grab hold of the Metatron’s robes, to keep him from walking behind Castiel. There was nothing Castiel could do. Behind him, the Metatron circled his hands around the root of each wing. He held them there for a long moment, feeling Castiel tremble. 

The Metatron stared the Host down. “Let this be a lesson to you all!”

With a sickening tear, the Metatron ripped out Castiel’s wings.

More happened after that, it had to, but Castiel saw none of it, could not focus beyond the pain.

All Castiel saw was the Metatron’s manic grin as he stared down at the bloody feathers on his hands.

⁂

“Cas! Hey, Cas! It’s okay. It’s just a dream. You’re okay.”

Caught in the hazy recollection of his memory, Castiel seized hold of the hand on his shoulder. A surprised yelp made Castiel blink. The hand was clean of blood or feathers. Castiel blinked again and the Throne of God faded away to be replaced by Meg’s kitchen. His face was pressed against a wooden floor but no one restrained him. Castiel sat up and braced himself against the wall. The hand went with him. 

“You know, dude, this place has a bed and everything. You didn’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“I fell asleep?” Castiel’s tongue felt thick and the film over his eyes made it hard to see. He used his free hand to rub away the sleep which still clung to him. As his grogginess subsided, Dean’s face came into focus. Dean's eyes were round and his hand was caught in Castiel’s grasp. “Oh. My apologies.” Castiel released Dean. 

“It’s all good.” Dean rubbed his wrist. He watched Castiel’s face, his expression soft. “You were…” Dean licked his lips. “You were screaming, Cas. You had me worried.”

“I didn’t mean to do that. Or worry you.” 

Dean sat beside Castiel, pressing their shoulders together. Castiel let the physical contact keep him immersed in the present. 

“That was a bad one,” Dean said, quiet and gentle.

Castiel mumbled an agreement and rubbed his head. His shoulders ached.

“What was it about?” Dean gasped as soon as he spoke. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”

The lines at the corner of Dean’s mouth betrayed Dean’s concern, a concern for Castiel. Castiel watched those lines grow deeper the longer Castiel did not reply. There was no need for Dean to worry about Castiel now, as his moment of weakness was over. However, when Castiel looked into Dean’s eyes, the light within them compelled Castiel to speak.

“It was a memory.”

“Not a good one, I’d wager.”

“You would be correct.”

Castiel lolled his head back against the wall and counted the bottles on Meg’s kitchen shelves. He did it a few times, keeping his mind out of his dreams and painful memories. Dean said nothing, did nothing to break Castiel’s silence. They sat, side by side on Meg’s kitchen floor, as the rays of the early morning sun crept across the room.

One hundred eight bottles. 

“It was about my final day in Heaven,” Castiel said.

Eyes still on the bottles, Castiel told Dean. He told him about Metatron. He told him about the wings. He told him about Baltazar’s betrayal. He told him what happened after. 

The Metatron forced Castiel to his feet, then marched him behind the Throne of God. Behind the Throne was the edge of Heaven. His wounds still bleeding, Castiel stood with his back to the endless expanse of blue sky and never backed down from the false God. 

“Metatron gave me two options,” Castiel said, “I could either kneel or be run through by his sword. Neither option appealed to me.”

“What did you do?” Dean asked.

“I took one step back.”

Castiel fell. He fell through Heaven, fell through the sky, and fell through the ocean. He washed ashore, not far from the very cabin he and Dean sat in as he told his story. In his waterlogged amour, his wounds burning with salt water, and his sword still secured to his belt, Castiel used his last spark of energy to crawl out of the ocean before he fell to darkness.

A few days later, Meg found him. She patched him up, gave him a place to recover, and shielded him when his enemies came looking for him. Once Meg's actions came to light, the Demons exiled her from Hell.

"I owe her my life," Castiel said. "I'm still not sure why she helped me. Or is still helping me."

"Wow," Dean said. "I guess that explains the bitter."

"I suspect she's always been abrasive."

"I'm shocked," Dean replied, deadpan. "Speaking of-- Where is she, anyway?"

"She left last night to prepare the spell." Castiel stood. Dean followed him, an arm at the ready if Castiel wavered. "We should join her. We're already late."

They gathered their supplies and met back at the door. Dean, in his new armour scavenged from Meg's storage, hefted his refilled pack onto his shoulders. He was ready to go. They both were, but Castiel paused at the door with his hand frozen over the doorknob. He could feel Dean’s stare. He could feel the questions behind it.

“Cas,” Dean started, his tone careful, “how did those hellhounds talk?”

Castiel did not turn around. “I don’t know.” Which was the truth, but Dean’s unspoken questions were obvious. “All I know is that, somehow, Metatron can speak through them. He can speak through all the Creatures.”

“Metatron?” Dean let out a low whistle. “Damn, that dude has it out for you.”

“That’s nothing new to me.”

“Well, it is to me.” Dean shuffled his feet. “Should-- should I be worried?”

The memory of the hellhound’s hot breath on Castiel’s face and the Metatron’s words made Castiel suppress a shiver. He kept his back to Dean, unsure if he could keep his expression as neutral as his voice.

“You'll be fine, Dean,” Castiel said. “Metatron is my problem. I will deal with it.”

“That’s great and all but, if this dude has something to do with the monsters us humans have been fighting for our whole damn lives, we sure would like the chance to fight back.”

“I know,” Castiel said. “I know that.”

“So, you know, if you wanted to share with the class--”

“Dean. Don’t. If you go uncovering the secrets of Celestials then you’ll---” Castiel turned around and met Dean’s eyes so he could see all the centuries of experience contained in the next words. “You’ll end up like me.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

Castiel squinted at Dean, unable to reconcile Dean’s question with the innocent tone. “Yes.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open at Castiel’s simple assertion. “Wha-- you’re not--”

“We should go,” Castiel said. 

Castiel opened the door and walked into the awaiting sunlight, the rays glittering in the waves of the sea. He marched onward towards his mission, leaving Dean to stare after him, face still frozen in an expression of disbelief. Castiel did not look back.


	21. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for torture in this chapter. It's not overly graphic, but it's there.

Every day was the same, if there even were days. The passage of time was marked by Sam's awakening from sleep and nothing else. When he woke up on one of those endless days, John stared at Sam. John said nothing. He sat as still as a statue in the castle gardens, his face glowing in the yellow haze. 

"What?" Sam asked.

John said nothing. 

"Oh, so now you'll be quiet," Sam muttered. 

John said nothing.

Sam stretched his arms over his head, attempting to ease the persistent ache in his back. It did not help. As he did every time he woke up, Sam patrolled the room, searching for an escape route. Usually, that action would prompt a comment or six from John about how Sam should give up hope. Today, however, John said nothing. In fact, John did not move-- not once-- from where he sat. 

The yellow haze grew thicker each time Sam awoke. It was hard for Sam to see through it, even harder for him to think. When Sam returned to his slab, John broke his long held silence.

"Why are you like this?" John asked.

The words sounded strange to Sam. He took a moment to process them before replying, "Like what?"

"Defiant. Hopeful." John's quiet voice seethed with rage. "There's no way out. You should've given up by now."

"Given up?" Sam sat up straight. "I'm not giving up. Not while my brother is out there. You're the one who's given up!"

"Ah, so it's the brother." John stood. The yellow haze closed in around him. "And believe me, I haven't given up. Not on you, Sammy. You're my favourite."

Glowing with all the yellow in the room, John stood tall. He looked big. He looked intimidating. He looked inhuman. 

"What are you--" Sam hunched over, trying to think over the ache in his head. "I never told you my name."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. This back and forth is starting to get old."

"How do you know my name? Who are you?"

"I told you, I'm John." He stepped forward. Sam shrank back. John clicked his tongue. "Fine, fine. I didn't lie. I am John. Or at least, I’m using his body."

"What?"

"You know, it's really hard to get anything done without a corporal body. I know, I know. The red tape-- it’ll drive you nuts.” The man who claimed to be John tapped his temple. “He’s still in here, you know. All that stuff we talked about? True.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam said. He could not find a way out of this room. Trapped. Trapped with this _thing_. “Who are you?”

The thing rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck from side to side. “More of a _what,_ actually.” He towered over Sam, a yellow gleam in his eyes. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about you. It’s about a little firey incident a few years ago.”

Sam knew what this man-- this entity-- hinted towards. 

“Lawerence,” Sam whispered.

“I knew you were smart.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Oh, everything, Sammy. Everything has to do with you. You have a great destiny to fulfill. But Dean is holding you back.”

Sam’s head snapped up and he stared into yellow eyes. Sam’s blood rushed through his body with each rapid beat of his heart. 

“But that’s okay,” the Demon who stole John’s face continued, “I can handle one kid.”

Sam could not move. Sam could not speak. Sam could not do anything but stare at the yellow haze.

“After all,” Azazel said. “How could Dean say no to his own father?”

⁂

The moon shone through the hole in the ceiling of the beach cave, its light beaming directly onto Meg's altar. She threw a handful of herbs into the bowl before her, then picked up the knife.

"Okay," Meg said, "last ingredient."

Castiel nodded, stepped forward, and held out his hand with his palm up. Meg paused to search his face but Castiel did not waver. When she sliced into his flesh, Castiel did not make a sound. Dean winced for him.

Meg and Castiel stood across from each other, their joined hands hovering over the barrier of the altar, and watched as blood dripped from Castiel's arm and into the bowl. With the first drop, the light receded. With the second drop, a shadow crossed over the moon. With the third drop, the moon disappeared. 

The cave went black. With his human eyes, Dean could see nothing. He could only hear the sound of the waves as they crashed against the outside wall of the cave. Castiel, on the other hand, could see the power flash through Meg's black eyes and could feel the energy in the cave change as the dimensions twisted around each other. Everyone noticed when the portal appeared, shimmering and shifting like the ocean when it appeared on the wall behind Meg, bathing the cave in an eerie glow.

Meg turned around, her eyes black as the night outside. "Alright. That's it. I'll keep it open as long as I can."

Castiel nodded and beckoned Dean to follow. Dean stood with Castiel, side by side, before the portal. The hair on Dean's arms raised in response to the energy in the cave. Castiel nodded to Meg, then turned his gaze on Dean. He said nothing, but Dean knew that Castiel was offering him one last chance to back out.

"Let's do this," Dean said. He took a deep breath and held his hand out to Castiel. To Castiel's perplexed look, Dean winked. "Don't worry. I'll protect you."

The words earned Dean an eye roll but Castiel took the offered hand. Their fingers curled around each other. Dean squeezed Castiel's hand and, when he squeezed back, Dean realized he was not the only one who needed reassurance. At Castiel's nod, he and Dean stepped forward as one and passed through the portal.

All colour drained from the world. They stood on a cliff overlooking the forest below, a forest much like the one they passed through in order to reach the beach. Purgatory, however, had no life. The trees did not grow. The birds did not sing. The river did not flow. Purgatory was caught in between the states of death and dying. Nothing which resided there would ever achieve peace, as they were doomed to engage in perpetual war. A war that could not-- would not-- end.

Hands still joined, Castiel pulled Dean behind him as they walked down the cliff. Long settled dust fluttered in response to their footsteps. They entered the forest, the trees' dry grey leaves desperately clinging to thin branches, and travelled for what seemed like miles. Not a single Creature crossed their path. 

Dean found that strange. Castiel marched on. He looked like he knew where he was going, so Dean followed him. Every few feet, Dean glanced back the way they came. 

Castiel came to a stop at a clearing that looked like every other one they had passed on their journey. He studied a boulder half embedded into the cliff face. 

Dean kept watch. Through the trees past Castiel’s head, water glinted in the glare of the constantly overcast sunlight. There was nothing and no one around them, but the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stood.

“So, not to complain or anything,” Dean said, “but where are all the monsters you told me about?”

Castiel’s already narrowed eyes grew narrower. “Excellent question.” He ran his hands over the boulder. A relieved gasp escaped his lips when he found a recess in the stone. “Well, we found it.”

“Hell’s backdoor is just sitting behind a plain old boulder?”

Castiel shrugged. “I didn’t design it.” 

With one sharp yank from Castiel, the boulder rolled away to reveal a perfect sphere of blackness. The blackness was so dark, so opaque, that no one could see beyond it. Castiel and Dean stood side by side before the blackness, a slight wind disturbing the stagnant Purgatory air.

"So, uh, do we just walk through or--?" Dean took a step forward.

Castiel stopped Dean from moving any closer by grabbing his shoulder. Dean expected a reprimand or an icy stare but, when he turned to see Castiel's face, all he saw was worry.

"Be careful, Dean." 

"I will. Same goes for you, yeah?" 

Castiel held out his hand. "Together?"

Dean took Castiel's hand. "Together."

They shared one last stabilizing breath then, at Castiel's nod, walked into the black. As soon as Dean passed through, the ground let out from under him. 

Dean fell.

He cried out Castiel's name, but he had no voice. He tried to grasp Castiel's hand, but it slipped from his fingers. He reached for something to stop him, but he found only empty air. 

After an eternity, Dean landed face down on a hard stone floor. He gasped, trying to catch his lost breath, and struggled to turn over. Once he managed to pull himself onto his knees, he noticed a man staring down at him. The man had milky white eyes and a smile that cut like a knife.

"Dean Winchester," the demon said, his nasal voice laced with such power and malice that Dean could do little more than stare. "I have been waiting for you for so long." The demon crouched. He held out a knife and caressed it over Dean's cheek. "We are going to have so much fun."

⁂

"Dean!" Castiel shouted.

But Dean was gone.

Castiel lost him.

Lost him in Hell.

Castiel knew. He knew, as soon as he touched down in an empty Purgatory, that something was amiss. He knew that, and yet, he still pressed on.

Something-- someone-- wanted Castiel here, wanted the Winchesters here.

Castiel did not fight his fall. He tumbled through the endless darkness. Lifetimes passed before he landed. All around him was deep, dark black. He was alone. His mission was unfulfilled. There was no sound. There was no colour. He was alone in the empty.

He would not give up. Dean was out there. Sam was out there. The whole Realm was out there. He picked a direction and walked.

Nothing changed. It was as if Castiel never moved at all. His feet paced back and forth on the same patch of darkness. 

This place was empty. Castiel was all alone. 

Castiel stopped. 

Yes, this place was empty. Yes, Castiel was alone. But he still had himself.

The sound of Castiel drawing his sword echoed across the emptiness. The darkness trembled. The sword’s gleam lit Castiel’s way. The darkness parted to get away from the light. 

Castiel marched onward.

⁂

Bloodied and raw knuckles never stopped Sam. He pounded the stone walls and shouted himself hoarse. 

No response. 

Sam had not received a response since Azazel left, passing effortlessly through the very wall Sam slammed with his fists. For Sam, the wall remained solid. 

Sam was trapped. 

Azazel was out there, somewhere, intent on going after Dean and Sam could not do anything about it.

Sam was powerless. 

There was one thing, however, one thing that could make him strong. Sam stood and pressed his palm flat against the wall.

“Ruby,” he whispered. 

⁂

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Alastair said, his voice singsong, “there’s no one coming for you. You know that, don’t you? Your brother? That Angel you’re so fond of? They’re glad to be free of you. You are such a burden to them. To everyone.”

None of the sharp instruments on Alastair’s table, none of the barbed restraints strapping Dean to the rack, could have cut him deeper than those words. Dean felt them. In his mind, he knew them to be true. He was a burden.

He was such a burden, Castiel let go.

He was such a burden, he lost Sam.

He was such a burden, his father left him.

“But don’t worry,” Alastair said, holding cold metal against the bare skin of Dean’s stomach. “I’m here for you.”

Dean screamed.

⁂

The light showed Castiel the way forward but, after trudging through the endless black emptiness, he had yet to see the end. Castiel kept moving, kept watching the darkness part as his sword lit the way, but nothing changed.

Castiel did not stop.

The darkness shook all around him. Slithering shadows broke away from the rest and congealed into a massive pile of darkness. It stopped in front of Castiel, stopped directly in the light, and formed into a humanoid figure-- a humanoid figure which looked exactly like Castiel.

The figure was not the Castiel who stood, staring wide eyed at the shadow before him, but the Castiel of the past. The past Castiel wore the Celestial commander's armour, shining with righteousness and holy fury. The proud, angry sheen in his eyes made the current Castiel shudder.

"Look at you," the other Castiel snarled. "Look at what you did to yourself. To _us_. All of this because of a few dead humans?" 

Castiel regarded the manifestation of his former self. He was like that once. He had no delusions about his past. He did hold all that fury, even now, but he made better use of it these days. At least, that was what he liked to think.

"You are either some kind of hallucination pulled from my memories or a shapeshifting demon sent to dissuade me from my path." Castiel shook his head. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that you're in my way."

"I _am_ you," the other Castiel said. "No matter how many people you save, no matter how many Creatures you fight, I will always be you."

"I know." 

"You will always be the Celestial who razed entire human settlements to the ground. You will always be the Celestial who sent his people into battle knowing it would get them killed. You will always be the Celestial who lies, lies, lies. Even now." The other Castiel closed in, radiating all the light and power Castiel had lost, and whispered into Castiel's ear, "Do you really think you could be forgiven for that, _Angel_?" 

"No," Castiel said. "I don't."

Castiel plunged his sword into the other Castiel's side, in the exact place he knew the armour would be weak. The Castiel of old never bothered to repair it, as he never believed he would be hit. 

The other Castiel's mouth opened in a silent death scream. All the light of Creation poured out of his mouth and eyes as he died. Castiel watched every moment, waiting for the light to fade before he removed his sword. The shadow of his former self dropped to the ground. 

The light cast away the remaining darkness. Castiel stepped over the rapidly decaying body and walked down the stone corridors of Hell.

⁂

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Endless waiting. 

By the time Ruby appeared, Sam was ready to hurl his entire body into the wall. He rolled his shoulders back and stood at his full height-- not enough for his liking-- and crossed his arms.

"Took you long enough," said Sam.

Ruby rolled her black eyes. "I'm a busy woman. Look, I'm here. Let's get this over with so I can tell you no."

"Oh, but you're not going to say no."

"You sound pretty sure for a trapped child."

"That's the thing, though, right? Trapped. I mean, you had so many chances to kill me but you never did. You just left me here."

Ruby did not reply. Sam saw the effort she put into staying still, but even she could not hide the lines on her forehead.

"So, you don't want me-- a child-- dead." Sam paced the room, claiming it, owing it. He had a plan and he needed it to work. "And back at the clocktower, you said something about a vessel." Ruby opened her mouth but Sam continued, his voice calm and even, before she could speak. "Therefore, you need me. But not this me. You need the me who drinks sanguis-- the blood."

While she still did not reply, there was a hint of a familiar smirk on Ruby's lips. She watched Sam as he finished his circle around the room and stopped directly in front of her. Sam leaned in close, forcing Ruby to back into the wall. 

"I think it's about time we made a deal," Sam said.

⁂

Dean knew that someday everyone was going to leave him. Dean knew that he had finally reached that someday.

Alistair left Dean in an empty room; left him to watch as his blood dripped to the floor from the wounds on his hands and feet. Those wounds, created by the long pieces of metal Alistair drove through Dean's flesh, pinned him to the wall. All Dean could do was wait.

Someone broke the silence. Someone spoke to Dean in a voice that was familiar and unknown at the same time. Dean blinked. He blinked again but the face before him did not go away.

“Dean. Dean! Come on, we have to get out of here.”

The face shifted as Dean tried to focus, switching between a long forgotten memory and a yellow hued warning. Dean blinked one final time and the warning faded away.

“What?” Dean coughed out the word.

“I’m getting you out of here. C’mon.”

With those words, Dean stood on the floor, wearing his armour and sword once again. He checked his hands and feet. They were whole, as if they had never been damaged. The bare stone walls and floor were clean, not a single drop of blood marring the surface. Dean stared at his saviour, stared at his greying beard and dark eyes, and could not shake the uneasy feeling that he knew this person.

Azazel grinned using John’s face. He almost had Dean. One thing-- one name-- would break down the last bit of Dean’s defences. 

“We need to go, now,” Azazel said. “We got to help Sam.”

Sam’s name had the intended effect. Dean dismissed his concerns, clearing them away with a shake of his head, and followed Azazel into the depths of Hell.


	22. The Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a spoil-ry content warning in the endnote. Take care of yourself!

Castiel could not recall how Hell appeared the last time he saw it. Though, at that time, he was in the middle of a battle. He had little time to pay attention to aesthetics. 

He paid attention now. The halls of Hell stretched on forever. The walls were lit by the flickering of unseen candles. Screams echoed from hidden rooms-- with no doors and no escape-- behind the walls. Every single one of those rooms could hold Sam or Dean. Every chorus of screams could hold the brothers’ voices. Every time, there was little Castiel could do but walk further down the hall.

With one way forward and one way back, Castiel should have seen the figure approaching him. Hell did not follow the rules of the Realm. Castiel paused, aware of another presence nearby. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of metal and reached out. His fingers curled around a solid, human-like shoulder. He yanked and the rest of the person came into full view.

Sam yelped as he stumbled backwards. He had not noticed that someone else roamed the halls. Castiel caught him before he landed on the ground. Castiel gripped Sam by the shoulders to steady him and study his face.

Sam’s mouth went slack. He sputtered out a few sounds before he managed to make sense. “Cas?” 

Castiel eyed the knife Sam clutched close to his chest. Its jagged edges were hard to forget. “Where did you find that?”

“Oh! I, ah, acquired it.” Sam loosened his grip and dropped his hands to his sides, the blade shining in the light. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” Castiel tilted his head as he studied Sam. He looked well, considering the last time Castiel saw him. 

“Well, here I am!” Sam cast his arms wide and stepped back, trying to break free of Castiel’s evaluative stare.

“Yes. That was far easier than expected.”

“Wasn’t easy for me,” Sam grumbled. He stared down the endless hallway, forward and back. “So, how’d you convince Dean to stay behind?”

“I didn’t.”

“You--” Sam surged forward, stopping short of grabbing Castiel. The knife shone in his hands. “He’s _here_? Where?”

Castiel clenched his jaw and met Sam’s eyes. He did not have to say anything. 

“Shit.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the stands until they stood up. “Okay, okay. I can still do this. It’s just gonna be a little more complicated.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know where Dean will be.”

⁂

Dean descended the stairs. The further down they went, the harder it became to place his feet. He strained his vision, unable to see much more than the outline of the steps and the body a few paces ahead of him. 

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Dean’s voice bounced all around them. 

“Don’t worry. We’re almost there.” Azazel waved Dean onward, his malicious grin hidden in the dark. “Almost there.”

Looking back from whence he came, Dean noticed that the stairs no longer existed. He tried to move back, but his foot touched empty air. He took one step down and watched the stairs behind him fade away. 

“Yeah, that’s not suspicious at all,” Dean muttered.

There was no other way for Dean to go but forward. Or downward, rather. If there was even the smallest chance Sam was at their destination, Dean had to check. Dean followed Azazel, keeping one hand on his sword. 

The final step dissolved and Dean entered a world made of lightning and rock. He was on a cliff overlooking the deepest part of Hell. This place was denied the light of Heaven. This place was chosen by the All-Father as the ultimate punishment. This place held a cage. 

Azazel stood at the cliff’s edge and spread his arms wide. He mumbled to himself, his head jerking back and forth wildly as if he were having an entire conversation on his own. Dean approached him, peering over the edge of darkness. As far as Dean could tell, they were the only two people in this place. Sam was never here.

Dean tightened his grip on his sword. This man-- this familiar stranger-- lured Dean into this Godforsaken place and he never once thought to question it. 

“Alright, so, let's pretend I’m not a total idiot,” Dean said, keeping a safe distance from Azazel, “and you tell me what your evil plan is.”

“Evil plan?” Azazel turned around and Dean fought the urge to back away from his yellow-eyed stare. “Dean, it’s starting to sound like you don’t trust me.”

“Oh, do I?” Once again, the only way Dean could go was down. He did not particularly like that option. "I mean, this place sure inspires a lot of trust."

"But you should trust me, Dean." 

"And why would I do that?"

"Because we're family."

Ice cold water coursed through Dean's veins. He wanted to dismiss the comment. He wanted to scoff at it. He wanted to be safe at Harvelle's Tavern, with Sam, Castiel, and the rest of his little family, laughing at the absurdity of the claim. He could not. Something whispered in the back of his mind and he could not ignore it.

Dean swallowed down the fearful giggle caught in his throat. "What are you talking about?" 

"Dean, Dean, Dean." Azazel took a step forward, his hand outstretched to clasp Dean's shoulder. Dean twisted his body away from the touch. "I know it's been a few years, but you really don't recognize me? _Me_? Your own father?" 

This time, Dean laughed. He could not stop it. Everything, absolutely everything, came crashing over Dean all at once. It was not true. It could not be true. He spent his whole life wanting to see his father again but he could not accept that he finally found him in Hell. 

Still, Dean followed Azazel into the depths, followed that strange sense of familiarity, and a part of him-- a hopeful, boyish part of him he buried under piles of logic and reality-- made him wonder. Dean could not see Azazel through the tears in his eyes. Azazel's triumphant smile wavered as he watched Dean hunch over, unable to control his laughter.

"A few--" Dean wiped his eyes and straightened his back. "A few _years_? Try my whole life. Shit. Sam doesn't know what he looks like. I can barely remember his face." Dean sighed, his short-lived mirth gone. "You know, a year ago that might've actually worked."

Azazel stared at Dean for a long moment then let out an inhuman snarl. "It doesn't matter. _You_ don't matter. You're just the bait."

"Yeah, that sounds about right." Dean shrugged. "So, since I don't matter, why don't you tell me who you really are?"

"I'm your father, Dean." 

"Yeah, see, you're not human. And I'm pretty sure I don't have any Demon blood in me."

"Well, not _you_." Thunder crashed behind Azazel's back. He did not flinch. "You know, you're smarter than you look. I didn't lie. Your dear ol' dad is in here. He's been dying to chat with you."

With those words, Azazel's entire bearing changed. His shoulders rolled forward, his scowl softened, and his eyes lost their yellow sheen. Even in the dark depths of Hell, Dean could see the humanity behind John's brown eyes.

"Dean," John said, his voice a low rumble. "Is that really you? You grew up."

Dean struggled to find his voice. "Dad?" 

Dean was four years old again. He was at home, in a tiny house held together with love and little else, with his mother and father and baby brother. He was safe. He was warm. He was happy.

But that house burned. His mother died. His father left. He still had not found his brother or Castiel. He was in Hell.

And he could smell smoke.

When John tried to move closer, Dean backed away. John pursed his lips and nodded, allowing the extra distance to remain between them.

“Why?” At first, Dean thought John did not hear the wavering words. A glance in his direction told Dean that he did not understand. Dean cleared his throat, stood tall, and looked directly into his father’s eyes when he asked, “Why’d you abandon us?”

“I never meant to,” John said. “I always planned to come back after I took down the thing that killed your mom.”

“Right. Sure. I bet banging the queen and leaving the knights you led to die and forever tainting the Winchester name was all part of the plan, huh?”

“How do you know all that?”

“If you had bothered to be around, you would know.” 

“I’m far from perfect, Dean.” John stepped forward. This time, Dean stood his ground. “I’m here now.”

Dean was angry. Dean was tired. Dean was suspicious. But Dean wanted-- he wanted so, so badly-- to have a father who could be proud of him.

“I’m gonna be a knight,” Dean said. “No. I’m gonna be _the_ knight.”

“You think you can?”

Dean bristled. “Of course I can.”

“What makes you so sure you’ll leave here?” John’s eyes flashed yellow. He squeezed his eyes shut and stilled, his entire body filled with tension. Not even the crack of thunder moved him. When he spoke again, it was a whisper to himself. “No. No. Not him. No one else.”

“Dad?” 

“It’s okay, Dean. I got him.” When John opened his eyes, he was all human. He smiled. “I got him.”

It was John’s turn to back away. He did not stop until his heels hovered over the cliff’s edge, moving so swiftly Dean had little time to react. Dean ran, stretching his arm out before him as if he could catch his father before he fell.

"Tell Sam…" John shook his head. "Just… watch out for Sammy, okay?"

The dark, black depths behind John were cut to pieces by stands of lightning. A defining crack echoed when John spread his arms wide. Dean cried out, reaching his father in time to feel the fabric of his clothes slip through his fingers. 

The depths returned to blackness and John did not fall. He was past the point of no return but, somehow, impossibly, he righted himself.

A terrible laugh escaped John's lips. "He really thought that would work."

Azazel punched Dean, sending him flying to the other side of the cliff. Dean gasped and fought to recover his balance, unable to stand. A bruise formed on his eye, blurring Azazel's approach.

"I mean, he's been trying to kill me for years now. That wasn't the deal, John. The deal was I get a body, you don't get tortured. As much." Azazel grabbed Dean by the shoulders, hauling him to his feet. "Poor ol' John Winchester thought he could win a battle of wills. Well, it's been years and he still hasn't avenged his sweet, dead wife. And now he's gonna have to add his son to the list."

There was no time to react. Dean's feet dragged across the ground as Azazel brought him to the cliff's edge. Dean dangled over the endless darkness. The hand of Azazel-- the hand of his father-- at his throat was the only thing keeping him from falling. He gripped Azazel's forearm and kicked his feet in the air, desperate to return to solid ground. Azazel's demonic strength held him fast. 

When Dean made the mistake of looking down, he saw the glint of silver metal and two red glowing lights.

"Dean!"

Dean choked, trying to respond to his name. He finally found Sam. Too bad it was at the worst possible time.

"Showtime!" Azazel's eyes flashed a yellow warning. He turned his head to see Sam break out into a panicked run. "Sammy, I can't stop him! You have to-- You--"

Azazel morphed from a triumphant, dangerous Demon into a worried, overwhelmed father. He even had tears in his eyes. The act was convincing enough that Sam stopped short. Sam studied the scene before him and kept a hand on Ruby's knife, hidden under his cloak. 

"Let him go," Sam said. He no longer sounded like a scared kid. He was Samuel Winchester-- a scholar, a healer, a human being-- and he was going to save his brother.

“But I--”

“Let him go,” Sam commanded. 

“I want to,” Azael said, still fully in the act, “but he won’t let me. Not unless you give up, Sammy.”

“Give up?”

Azazel stared down into the dark chasm, his eyes bright. “Can’t you hear him? He’s calling for you. He’s been waiting for you for a long, long time. Just give up. Give in. Say yes to him. Fulfill your destiny and save us all.”

The red lights blinked.

“He?” Sam asked.

“My father.” Azazel could no longer hide his glee, his devotion, his rapture, at reaching the cumulation of all his plans. “Lucifer.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: When John takes over from Azazel, he tries to throw himself off a cliff while Dean watches. (he doesn't succeed)  
> Also, blanket warning for John's A+ parenting (or lack of it, really). Dean gets to tell him off.


	23. Father

The stairs welcomed Sam as soon as he approached them. It was as if they were waiting for him. It was as if they wanted him to use them. Sam bounded down the steps two at a time, oblivious to Castiel shouting after him. 

The stairs rejected Castiel. As soon as Castiel reached the first step, as soon as he lost Sam, they disappeared. Hell did not recognize Castiel as one of their own. 

It was the only way down. It was the only way to reach Sam and Dean.

Once again, Castiel fell. 

He took a leap of faith. He did not know if he would land. He did not know if he would ever escape Hell. All he knew was that the Winchesters were down there. That was enough.

Lightning sliced through the air, illuminating Castiel’s way. Like a sailor diving into an unknown sea, Castiel used his arms to cut through the air. He fell faster, faster, faster, and thunder echoed in his ears. 

When the end was in sight, Castiel tucked into a roll. When he hit the stone cliff, the impact sent shockwaves throughout his body. The pain did not matter to Castiel. He was awake. He was alive. He could stand.

And he heard a voice. 

“My father needs a vessel-- one that can hold someone of his power-- and you, Sammy, are the chosen one. Once Lucifer walks the Realm again, he will save us all!”

No one noticed Castiel’s entrance. Azazel and Sam, with their backs to Castiel, squared off against each other. Sam stood tall, his hand around his knife. Azazel held his head high in his moment of triumph, his hand around Dean's neck.

_Dean!_

Castiel slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from crying out. He took a few steps before reining himself back. He had sent countless comrades into dangerous situations-- many into their deaths-- and not once had he felt the surge of emotion that accompanied seeing Dean hanging helplessly over the depths of Hell. Castiel would have marvelled at the sensation if the situation was not so dire. Instead, he let the moment pass before he had a chance to process or understand it. 

“Just let Dean go! Then we can talk about Lucifer all you want,” Sam said. “I promise.”

“I’m not gonna kill him. Yet. And this way you’ll listen.” 

Silent as the shadows, Castiel advanced on Azazel’s flank. Not an easy endeavour, sneaking through a wide open space, but Castiel had faced worse challenges. Though, all those other times, his heart had not pounded so hard. 

“You see,” Azazel began, “Lucifer is a Celestial. But not just any Celestial. He defied God and, for that, he was cast out.”

Castiel already knew this story. He did not need to listen to a Demon prattle on about how Lucifer was thrown into the darkest shadows under Heaven. Castiel did not need to hear about Lucifer creating Hell, or how he made the first Demon, or the events behind his attack on Heaven. 

Castiel did not need to hear the story because he was there. Lucifer made it as far as the Celestial throne room before God even acknowledged his existence. Castiel saw Lucifer lose his wings. Castiel saw Lucifer burn from the inside out. Castiel saw Lucifer punished for his sins. 

Castiel was not the first Celestial to have his wings ripped out, but the second. Yet more evidence of the Metatron playacting God. 

While Azazel spun his tale, Castiel advanced. Sam spent his time looking between Dean-- who had gone limp in Azazel's hold-- and Azazel. Sam was at an impasse. If he struck at Azazel he would lose Dean but if he tried to grab Dean there was no way to survive the reprisal. So Sam listened to Azazel and tried to make a decision.

Castiel made it for him. Azazel neared the end of his plea for Sam to show sympathy for the Devil when Castiel seized him from behind. Castiel’s sword shone brighter than ever before, flaring with his anger. Yellow eyes reflected in the metal when Azazel looked down at the blade at his throat and the arms locking him in place. 

“I assume you remember this sword and what it could do to you,” Castiel growled. 

“Castiel!” Azazel grinned. “I’d love to chat and catch up. I mean, the whole Angel thing? Great. But I’m a bit busy right now.”

“Oh, don’t let me stop you. Step forward.”

“When did _you_ get a sense of humour? I always thought Uriel was the funny one.” 

“I suggest you let Dean go-- safely and securely on the ground. If you do, I might consider giving you a headstart before I run you through.”

“So commanding! Hate to break it to you, Cassie-boy, but you’re not my commander.” Azazel rolled his head back so Castiel could see his smirk. “You never were.”

“You’re right, but…” Castiel pressed the sword’s edge hard against Azazel’s neck. “Look at us now.”

Sam had not moved. He did not know if he should. Or could. He trusted Castiel but there was a glint in his eyes Sam had never seen.

“Well, you haven’t killed me yet so something’s holding you back.” Azazel carefully turned his neck and flicked his eyes to Dean. “Or someone.”

“You don’t know me at all, do you?” Castiel scoffed. “Remember when I sent Balthazar to that canyon for one single Demon? It took him years to return.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Castiel. I’ve heard you’ve gone soft in your old age.”

“Have I?” Castiel drew blood. “Would you like to test that?”

Azazel glimpsed down at the sword, to Dean, and then back to Castiel, his yellow eyes flashing. “You know what? The boy’s served his purpose and, well, my arm is rather tired.” Azazel lowered Dean, dropping him safely and securely on the ground as instructed. Dean crumpled. Sam ran to him. Azazel looked at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. “There. Happy now?”

“Not in the least.” As promised, Castiel released Azazel.

“Well look at that,” Azazel said, rolling his neck after placing distance between him and Castiel. “You _are_ getting soft. The Castiel I remember would have chopped my head off right then and there.”

He was right but Castiel did not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Castiel would not mourn Azazel and would relish the chance to finally defeat him. However, the Demon's new body gave Castiel pause. He had no desire to force the Winchesters to witness their father's beheading. Before his fall, Castiel would never have hesitated over that inconsequential detail. To the Castiel who stood on the cliff, it seemed the most important detail of all.

Azazel leaned over the chasm, nodding like he heard someone speak. He looked over at Sam, Dean, and Castiel. Azazel grinned, blinked, then disappeared with the sound of thunder. 

He was not gone. Not a chance. Castiel rushed to the brothers’ sides instead of remaining vigilant. 

Sam clung to Dean. Dean made no effort to push him away. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and kept him close. Now that they finally found each other, neither brother was letting the other out of their sight. 

Castiel sat in front of Dean, gently touching his face. He took stock of Dean’s swollen eye and the bruises circling Dean’s neck. Healing power gathered underneath Castiel’s fingertips as he traced the wounds but he did not use it. He would not unless Dean wanted him to, no matter how much Castiel hated seeing Dean injured.

“He _hurt_ you,” Castiel said, unable to keep his voice steady.

Dean cleared his throat. “I’m fine.” 

Castiel winced at Dean’s rough voice. “You know I could--”

“No.” 

“I could expect no less from a stubborn fool.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean made a motion to swat away Castiel’s hand. At the last second, he took it into his own, running his thumb softly over Castiel’s calloused knuckles before letting go. “You like me anyway.”

Castiel leaned back with a fond smile. Dean noticed he did not deny it. He also noticed that, when Castiel smiled for real, his eyes crinkled at the edges.

Glancing between the two men, Sam knew something changed though he did not know what. How long had he been away? Sam opened his mouth to ask just that, when he was interrupted by a deafening boom.

All three men watched as grey lighting tore the darkness to shreds. The dull, decaying light did little to brighten the depths of Hell, but it was enough to glint off the chain suspended in the middle of the chasm, previously hidden by the dark. The chain screeched as it moved, pulling the cage out of the depths.

Castiel reacted first. He grabbed Sam and Dean and brought them to their feet. He kept them both in hand as he rushed for the stairs. Castiel did not know what was coming. All he knew was that he had a chance to facilitate the brothers’ escape. The stairs had rejected Castiel before but that never mattered to him. What mattered was that the Winchesters could be saved.

By the time they reached the stairs, all they found was a smooth stone wall.

When they turned around, Azazel greeted them. Castiel and Dean stood on either side of Sam, both of them extending a protective arm over Sam’s body. Azazel rolled his eyes. 

The chain stopped. The resounding silence which followed was somehow louder. The top of the cage sat level with the cliff, as far as it could go due to the All Father's might. His banishment, decreed millennia ago, still held all its original power. 

"Finally!" Azazel exclaimed. "You know, Sammy, when I walked into your nursery all those years ago, I thought everything was over when that woman interrupted us. I mean, I just bled into your mouth a little bit, to make sure you were suitable, no big deal." Azael paused long enough to be sure he had the Winchesters' rapt attention. "Poor Mary. It's a shame I had to kill her."

All Dean’s training--all Dean’s rational thought-- left him as soon as he heard his mother’s name. With a primal scream, Dean drew his sword and launched himself at Azazel. Castiel could not stop his reckless charge. Sam froze, unable to process the events around him after hearing such shattering news for the first time.

His father’s sword in hand, Dean aimed a mighty swing at Azazel’s head. Azazel sidestepped, accepting a glancing blow on the shoulder for the opportunity to grab Dean’s sword hand by the wrist. Yanking Dean forward, Azazel wrapped his free hand around Dean’s neck to hold him in place and pin his other arm to his side. Azazel twisted Dean’s wrist, forcing him to open his hand and drop his sword. Azazel claimed the weapon as his own.

“Well look at that, John,” Azazel said. “Your son is sentimental. How kind of him to return your-- my-- sword.”

Dean grunted with effort, struggling to free himself from Azazel’s hold. Azazel held out the sword in warning to Castiel, who had advanced forward in an attempt to help Dean.

“Don’t move, Angel.” Azazel spun Dean around, locking him in place. Dean stared down at the sharp edge of the sword against his neck. “Or say goodbye to your human.”

Castiel widened his stance. He unfurled his arms, his hands open and empty, to show he would not draw his sword. Azazel believed he won. That was why he never noticed Castiel’s subtle steps forward. That was why he never noticed Castiel turn his body, shielding what was behind him from view. That was why he never noticed Sam.

For one in his life, Sam was grateful for his small stature. He crouched low, circling behind Azazel, with Ruby’s knife in hand. He held his breath, placing his feet as carefully and silently as possible. Sneaking into the library’s restricted section for months taught him how to go unnoticed while being in plain sight. By the time Azazel felt Sam’s presence, it was too late.

Sam stabbed Azazel in the back. 

Sparks, yellow and angry, spluttered from the wound. When Azazel cried out in pain, more sparks flowed out from his mouth. Dean took advantage of the situation, wrenching himself from Azazel’s grip and to Castiel’s side. Dean panted, grasping Castiel's shoulder to hold himself upright. 

“Sammy,” Azazel said, brandishing the sword in Sam’s direction. “Where did you get that knife?”

“It’s Sam.” He held up the knife and gestured toward Dean and Castiel. “And you better leave them alone.”

“I knew you were my favourite.” Azazel coughed and spat dark blood on the ground. His teeth were bloody when he smiled. “Doing a little manipulating yourself, huh? I feel like a proud papa.”

“Don’t,” Sam said.

“What’s a little backstabbing among family? Tell you what: you walk over to that cage over there, and I’ll leave those two… friends alone.” 

Sam saw Dean and Castiel try to warn him, try to tell him no, but he ignored it. “You promise?”

“You’re the one with the knife, Sam,” Azazel said. 

Sam walked toward the cage, the two red glowing lights wide and watching him. A whisper sounded from all around him. A whisper that only Sam could hear. A whisper that was his name. 

Azazel did not follow Sam. He turned to Dean and Castiel, a bloody smile fixed upon his face. He groaned and clutched at his wound. 

“I'll admit, that was pretty close. But I did it.” 

Dean never heard a word Azazel said. The only reason he had not run after Sam was that Castiel held him back. 

“What did you do to him?” Castiel asked. 

“I didn’t do anything,” Azazel said. “I just helped him along to his destiny.”

“Sam!” Dean yelled.

Sam heard nothing but the whispers. He walked to the edge of the cliff. He kneeled. He reached out. 

“Too late, Dean,” Azazel said. “Soon, the Devil will walk the earth.”

“How?” Castiel asked. “The All-Father banished him.”

“Loophole. A little, tiny loophole. It took lifetimes to figure out.” Azazel raised his sword. “The banishment was for the Devil. Not humans. The cage won’t want a human in there. And, when the cage kicks Sam out, my father will hitch a ride with a nice, suitable body.”

Sam grasped the top bar of the cage. The whispers filled his mind. The twin red lights swirled around and around as they ascended to the top of the cage. When the lights touched Sam’s fingers, the chasm flashed red. 

“Sam!” Dean shouted.

Dean tore himself free. Headless of the fact he was unarmed, the fact that Azazel was in his way, and the fact that Lucifer was rising, Dean ran to Sam. Sword in hand, Castiel readied to cut off Azazel’s advance but Azazel never moved. 

“No. No.” Azazel leaned over, resting his hands on his thighs. He looked up, the yellow in his eyes fading away. “I don’t want this.” 

The gleam of Castiel’s sword faltered. He waited for the person before him to speak. 

“Angel?" The man blinked his vision clear. "I’m gonna need your help.” 

Castiel lowered his sword but kept it at the ready. The man struggled to stand up, pressing against the wound with one hand. Sweat dripped from his brow and his mouth was drawn into a deep frown. When he met Castiel’s eyes, Castiel saw no hint of the Demon. Castiel saw a worried human. 

Castiel saw John.

Giving John a shoulder to lean on, Castiel asked, “What do you need?”

“Make sure those two are nowhere near the cage. I’m going to take it down.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Me and yellow eyes have been sharing a head for a while now. I know what he knows. There’s a weak point. As soon as you get my boys out of there, I’ll strike.”

“What about you?”

“Look, the Demon’s got plans. They ain’t pretty. So we gotta stop him _now._ ” 

“John, you--”

“Castiel.” The use of his name reminded Castiel of their dire circumstances. He listened carefully when John continued, “I know we haven’t seen eye to eye much, but I think we can on this: Azazel’s plans need to be stopped and Sam and Dean need to survive this.”

“Yes. We can.”

“Good. I'll make sure you can escape." 

As soon as John walked away from Castiel, he cried out. He leaned over, unable to move. A dark patch of blood bloomed over the back of John’s robes. Castiel splayed his hand across John’s back, healing power gathered in his palm. He sent it through John’s body, enough to let him stand on his own two feet but not enough to completely heal him. The knife-- etched with runes of an ancient forgotten magic-- resisted Castiel’s healing. There was not enough time to figure out how to bypass it. 

John raised an eyebrow at his sudden recovery but he did not complain. With a nod to Castiel, John gripped his sword and ran in the opposite direction of Sam and Dean. Castiel hurried to his own task.

The red light snaked itself around Sam’s arm, spinning around and around as it moved. Face blank, Sam watched it reach as far as his elbow. He swayed back and forth, caught in a trance. He heard nothing-- felt nothing-- but the red light. He did not stir when Dean shouted his name. He did not move when Dean tried to pull him back. 

By the time Castiel joined the brothers, Dean sat beside Sam with his head in his hands. Dean never looked up.

Castiel sat beside Sam. "You can let go now, Sam." 

Sam could not hear him. He listened to the whispers and the promise of paradise. 

"If you don't," Castiel said. "Dean will never make it home."

At the sound of Dean's name, Sam stirred. The whispers stuttered. The light on Sam's arm stopped advancing.

"All those people back home in Lawrence-- Ellen and Jo and everyone else-- will die if you free Lucifer," Castiel said.

Every time Castiel spoke a name, the light dimmed. Dean looked up.

"Then there's Kurbrick," Castiel continued, "though he sounds more like a nuisance than a friend. He was, however, the first person to help you learn how to read."

Dean inched closer to Castiel and Sam, hardly believing what he heard. Castiel spoke like they were in the library rather than Hell as he told Sam about the time Dean and Victor tried to make tomato soup when Sam was sick. They failed miserably-- all they did was throw whole tomatoes into a pot of boiling water-- but it made Sam laugh for the first time in days. Castiel recalled even more stories, every one of them down to the last detail. Every one of those stories was one Castiel heard from Dean. 

"Dude, you remember all that?" Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

At the sound of Dean's voice, the light around Sam's arm receded. 

"Perhaps Dean should tell the next one," Castiel said. He stood and moved behind the brothers.

At Castiel's insistent look, Dean blurted out the first memory that popped into his mind. "I lied to you about the first time I got beat up. It wasn't about Robin. It was about you. Remember Roy and Walt? They blamed you for the fire." The light around Sam's arm flashed. Dean slid closer to Sam. "You were a baby, Sam, it wasn't your fault. None of this is." Dean licked his lips, watching the light-- now at Sam's wrist-- refuse to move further. "Anyway, Roy and Walt might have been twice my size and older than me, but I fought them off. They left town pretty fast after that. I like to think that was me. So, what I'm saying is, if I could fight off those guys at twelve, I could totally take on Lucifer for you now. I'm a lot bigger these days. So--"

Dean grabbed the cage, right next to Sam's hand, and closed his eyes. The whispers became harsh, angry, and violent. They did not like Dean. They wanted Dean gone. They wanted Dean dead and they wanted Sam to do it. 

Sam's eyes flew open. "No. No, I won't."

He yanked his hand away. The remaining light fell back down into the cage, scattering like snowflakes. Sam grabbed Dean's arm and pulled. Together, the brothers broke free.

The instant Sam and Dean landed on their backs, Castiel dragged them to their feet. They made it halfway to the reopened stairway when an awful metallic shriek demanded their attention. 

John's sword threw sparks as he slid down the chain. The cage swung due to the added weight. He stopped just before reaching the bottom and focused his attention on the link in front of him, wedging his sword into the weakest point. 

"Dad!" Sam and Dean shouted at the same time, both of them trying to run to him because they knew that it was their father up there and not the Demon. Castiel held them back.

Across the cliff, through the chasm, and over the crack of thunder, John heard them. He turned his head and, after nodding to Sam and then Dean, he gave his sword one final, mighty, push. 

The chain snapped.

There was no time to jump. There was no time for goodbyes. There was no time for anything before the cage fell, bringing John with it.

There was no crash, no clang of metal, and no shattered bones. The cage dropped into the endless darkness, doomed to fall for all eternity, and would never be seen again.

The thunder stopped. The chasm returned to its original blackness. For one single moment, all remained still. 

All Hell broke loose. 

The cliff shattered, falling to pieces into the chasm’s open mouth. The dark chasm's hunger would never be sated. Cracks and fissures appeared in the stone at Sam and Dean’s feet. Castiel tugged the unresponsive brothers onto an unbroken patch before the stone collapsed out from under them. 

Dean stared at the blank space he stood not a few seconds before. He blinked a few times, clearing away the tears in the corner of his eyes, and transformed from a son grieving the father he never knew into a knight. The Knight. 

“Move!” Dean commanded.

Dean led the charge, grabbing Sam's arm to pull him behind him and trusting Castiel to bring up the rear. They clamoured up the steps, the walls crumbling behind them as the darkness claimed all. They ran. They could not look back. They could not stop because, if they did, they would be swallowed up. They ran. 

Dean reached the top of the stairs, yanking Sam in behind him as fast as he could through the doorway and onto solid ground. Once Sam’s foot left the final step, the remaining ones dissipated one by one. Castiel was left with the land crumbling behind him, and his escape route turning to nothingness before him. 

Castiel heard the brothers shout his name. He raised his gaze and, at the last possible second, he lept. Dean and Sam caught him. Taking one of Castiel’s arms each, Sam and Dean heaved Castiel up past the threshold into the halls of Hell. 

The chasm yawned behind them. A loud boom vibrated the wall as a huge reinforced wall cut off the darkness behind them. Too tired to think about this certainly-not-miraculous action which saved them, the group leaned back against the wall, taking long and greedy gulps of much needed air. 

“It-- It wasn’t Dad, Dean,” Sam said, his words not even convincing himself. “Not really.”

“No, Sam.” Dean’s eyes stared at nothing. “He was.”


	24. Goodbye (Don't Leave Me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! We've reached the end of part one!

No screams-- no sound of any kind-- echoed down the halls of Hell. As Sam, Dean, and Castiel walked down the hallway in search of an exit, the sounds of their footsteps were absorbed by the silent stone.

The one part of Sam’s plan that worked-- the part where he stabbed Azazel with Ruby’s knife to weaken him-- gave him little consolation. Sam never intended to do anything other than subdue Azazel and rescue his brother. He never intended for events to go any further than that but, instead, he let Lucifer into his mind. For a moment, Sam let the Devil caress that deep, dark, tainted part of him and, at that moment, Sam wanted it. Sam wanted it. For the rest of his life, Sam would never forget that.

Dean's hands hung at his sides as he plodded down the hallway beside Sam, his legs shaking at every step. He hurt. His head ached. His bruised eye swelled completely shut. His throat felt like he swallowed a thousand swords. He did not think. He put one foot in front of the other because that was all he could do.

Leading the group, Castiel noticed the silence. He noticed how the lights on the walls were static. He noticed how the hallway no longer shifted around reality. Walking down the no longer endless hallway, he could not help but notice that Hell was gasping, dying, fading away.

When the group reached the end of the hallway, they found Ruby waiting for them. Castiel's hand went to his sword but she did not move. Ruby’s hair hung long and lank over her shoulders, dark shadows covered her face, and no light reached her eyes when she looked up.

“Why, Sam?” Ruby asked, her voice devoid of any emotion. “You were supposed to save us. Instead, you destroyed our father and, with him, our home.” When Sam did not answer, she nodded. “This is it for Hell, you know. I mean, there will still be Demons out there but--”

“Can’t say I’m sorry about that,” Dean rasped. He had not forgotten everything Ruby had done. 

“You don’t get it.” Ruby's lips pulled into a thin line. “Without Hell, Heaven has all the power. They can do whatever they want, whenever they want.”

Dean and Sam stared at Ruby with blank expressions but Castiel balled his hands into fists. When he raised his gaze to the ceiling, he could almost hear the Metatron laughing. 

“I won’t let that happen,” Castiel said.

“You won’t, huh?” Ruby rolled her eyes, the movement subdued. “You’re just one Angel. And not much of one.”

“Look.” Sam stepped forward, knife in hand. “We’re leaving. If you're here to stop us--”

“Oh, I’m not stopping you.” Ruby knocked against the wall beside her. It dissipated, revealing the dark portal which led back to Purgatory. “I just wanted you guys to know that, when the Realm ends, it was your fault.” 

She shoved past the group, passing by Sam’s outstretched knife. It was as if she wanted him to use it. Sam did not. No one stopped her as she silently slipped out of history. 

“This is it, right?” Sam asked. “We can go home now?”

"Unfortunately not," Castiel said. Metal jingled as he released his sword belt. "There's still Purgatory to contend with."

Sam was about to ask another question when Castiel held out his sword to Dean. The belt swung back and forth in front of Dean's unblinking eyes.

"What?" Dean blinked but made no other move. 

"You're unarmed," Castiel said, "and I suspect we won't walk through Purgatory unhindered."

"Yeah. So, obviously, you'll need your sword."

"This is not the only weapon I carry." Castiel squared his stance and stood before Dean, his long held stare reminding Dean of the promise he made. "Look. You're injured. Either take this sword or I will heal you."

Dean snatched the sword out of Castiel's hand. "Fine. But as soon as we're out, you're getting this back."

"Of course." 

Castiel reached into his boot, pulling out a tri-edged silver blade. He marched to the portal, Sam and Dean not far behind. Each brother grabbed him by the arm and, together, they walked through. 

Purgatory greeted them with a wide open maw of sharp, shining teeth. Finesse and training mattered little when all one had to do was slash wildly to hit a Creature. Sam tried to stay alive, Dean tried to protect Sam, and Castiel tried to cut a path for escape. 

A ghoul, her ashen skin showing her hunger, lunged past Dean and Castiel and went straight for Sam’s bare neck. Dean rushed to Sam’s defence, severing the ghoul’s head before her teeth pierced Sam’s skin. The three werewolves Dean turned his back on stuck, their mangled claws still threatening in the colourless Purgatory sun. 

Dean never knew he was under attack. Castiel’s blade flashed, slashing the first werewolf’s throat and piercing through the second’s eye before either registered his movement. The third werewolf spun around, his golden eyes the only light in his overgrown face, and bared his teeth. 

Castiel removed his blade from the second werewolf, turning to see claws descending upon his face. He dodged in time to avoid the worst of the damage but gasped when the werewolf caught him on the shoulder. The werewolf dug his claws in deep and pressed his lips against Castiel’s ears.

“I must thank you, Castiel,” the werewolf said using the Metatron’s voice. Rank breath scraped down Castiel’s skin as the werewolf continued, “As I said, I love a good--”

The Metatron never finished gloating. Cut off by Dean’s attack, the werewolf’s head rolled across the dry leaves on the ground.

Dean admired the gleam of the Angel’s sword, “Huh. It _is_ pretty nice.”

“We need to move. _Now_ ,” Sam said, gesturing with his bloodied knife to the treeline. 

Glowing eyes watched them. Hisses and screams flowed out from the trees. Every Creature of the Night advanced, called forth by the Metatron. 

They ran.

Many Creatures fell that day. Every Creature crossing the group’s path met their quick end. 

The portal, wavering at the clifftop, invigorated the exhausted humans. Dean yelled over his shoulder to Sam, encouraging him to climb while he and Castiel held off the growing horde. When Sam reached the top, Castiel knew it was time.

The last vampire fled into the tree, her wounds too grievous for her to survive. Castiel knew more Creatures approached, so he seized the only chance he had left.

“Dean, go!”

“Yeah, yeah. We need to get outta here.” Dean grasped Castiel’s hand but, when Dean tried to lead him up the cliff, Castiel stayed rooted to the ground. “Cas, C’mon we gotta--”

“There’s more,” Castiel said. As he spoke, a line of Creatures marched into view, Creatures for which humans had no name. Castiel knew them. “I’ll hold them off. I’ll hold them all off.”

“What? No! We just gotta--”

“Dean!” Castiel kept his eyes on the new Creatures. “Remember Sam. Remember your promise.”

“That’s not fair, Cas.”

“I know. Now _move._ ”

The Creatures sprinted. In a matter of seconds, they would reach the cliff. Castiel shoved Dean towards the portal then strode to meet the Leviathan. 

“Cas! You-- You bastard!” Dean shouted. 

It made Castiel smile. Too bad Dean could not see it.

Dean scurried up the cliff to join his brother. The portal sputtered, disappearing for a heart-stopping second before it appeared again. Dean did not care. He stared down the cliff, stared down as he saw Castiel reach the Leviathan army.

“Dean! Dean! We have to go,” Sam wrapped his arms around Dean’s slumped shoulders, dragging him toward the portal. “I’m sorry.”

The last thing Dean saw before the portal closed was Castiel facing the Leviathan as their open maws full of sharp, shining teeth descended upon him.

⁂

“Cas! Castiel! No, no, no! You can’t do this to me, you bastard!”

Knuckles bleeding, Dean pounded against the wall of the sea cave, in the exact spot the portal closed behind him the moment he escaped Purgatory. He had not stopped since it closed, headless of Sam watching him, unaware of Meg’s exit the second Dean and Sam returned. Instead, Dean clawed at the stone wall, as if he could somehow find his way back to Castiel, back to save him.

Dean slumped, his bloodied fingernails leaving tracks down the wall, the adrenaline of battle leaving him all at once. He braced his palms against the wall and rested his forehead upon the stone, closing his eyes.

“Don’t leave me,” Dean whispered. 

Sam knelt next to Dean, placing a comforting hand on Dean’s back. He waited for Dean’s breathing to slow.

“Dean?” Sam waited once again for Dean to look at him. “Can we go home now?”

Taking in Sam’s pale face and tired eyes, Dean swallowed down his emotions-- they barely receded below the surface-- and allowed Sam to bring him to his feet.

“Yeah. Let’s go home.” 

Dean's voice gave out on the last word. Sam helped Dean to his feet. The brothers walked out of the cave, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmm, sorry? I absolutely want to know your reactions to this one. Did you see this coming? Any guesses on what the master plan is? 
> 
> See you Monday. :)


	25. The Knight

**Part Two: Five Years Later**

His eyes were the wrong colour. 

It did not matter much once they were in the dark. It did not matter much when he ran his hands down Dean’s body. It did not matter much when he brought Dean to bed. It did not matter much when he wrapped his naked body around Dean, his muscles taut under Dean’s hands. 

It did, however, matter a lot when he pushed off Dean and rolled onto the other side of the bed the instant they were done. He never even bothered to say goodbye when Dean left. 

Bad idea. Dean knew the guy was a bad idea the second they met eyes back at Andrea’s Tavern. Dean never asked for the guy's name. He had short dark hair, a strong, stubble-dusted jaw, and was built like a soldier. These days, that was enough for Dean.

Dean did not stop to think about why.

The door shut behind him with a final click. Dean leaned against it, taking short, shallow breaths, and pushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead. 

His eyes were the wrong colour.

It mattered a lot. 

Dean headed down the dark, empty streets of the Capital. The fresh spring breeze caressed him as he walked, cooling the sweat on his skin. He turned the corner and headed for the castle. 

Returning to the Capital with the Angel’s sword-- but no Angel-- had marked Dean as the successor to Castiel’s legacy. It afforded him many privileges. Dean earned his full knighthood in record time. He worked closely with Captain Singer to take his place once he retired. Dean taught and trained the new recruits-- his idea-- just as Castiel had done for him. Dean also inherited the Angel’s wing of the castle, which he and Sam moved into not long after their return. 

Dean had done it. He had become a knight. The Knight.

It did not matter much. 

The Long War raged on. The Creatures of the Night grew stronger, faster, and more intelligent with each passing year. Dean’s rapid climb to knighthood and leadership meant he spent his days making impossible decisions. He could send thirty soldiers to their deaths to save three hundred civilians or let three hundred civilians starve to keep his soldiers for yet another inevitable battle. Neither option was good, neither decision was bad, but, over the last five years, all those choices weighed Dean down.

The humans were losing. Nothing Dean had done seemed to change that. 

Dean did not go to his-- to Castiel’s-- wing. Instead, he walked down a different hall and knocked on the first door. No one answered, of course, as it was the middle of the night. Dean pounded at the door, using both fists, until he received a reply.

“Seriously, dude? You know I love you but--” The red headed woman in the doorway cut off her sleepy protests when she saw Dean leaning against the door frame with a haunted look in his eye. 

“Hey, Charlie,” Dean said. “Can I come in?” 

“Yeah,” Charlie said, stepping back from the door. “Course you can.”

When she first arrived in the Capital, Charlie marched into the castle and demanded to be taken on as a blacksmith. She was laughed out of the audience hall. She did not give up. She sold her swords, her armour, and all her various wares to the castle soldiers and built a reputation for the toughest, most powerful equipment around. Once her renown grew, the castle asked her to become a blacksmith. She laughed three representatives from her shop. She did not laugh at Dean. Three years later, the friendship that began in her humble shop on the outskirts of town forged stronger every day. 

“You okay? You smell like a tavern.” Charlie sniffed as Dean pushed his way past her. She wrinkled her nose. “And guy.”

Dean twisted his fingers around each other as he hovered in the middle of the bedroom, his back to Charlie. He stared out the moonlit window and tried to think. He was having trouble thinking. He was having trouble thinking all day.

“The-- the villagers were saved from the werewolves. They’re being relocated as we speak,” Dean said, his back to Charlie, “but, uh, Garth didn’t make it.”

The report came in that morning. Dean sent Garth’s platoon to a village in the eastern forest, whose elders pleaded for relief from nighty werewolf raids. Garth jumped at the call for help. He always wanted to help. That was why, when it became clear the village would be overrun, Garth launched a plan to help his troops and villagers escape. His plan worked but Garth had to stay behind. The village was overrun. 

No one saw a body. No one believed he survived. The report called Garth a hero. Dean was tired of heroes. They all seemed to end up dead. 

Dean told Charlie all of it, knowing he was sharing top secret information, because Garth’s sacrifice brought up long hidden-- long buried-- feelings. 

“Why?” Dean asked the floor. “Why do people do that? Is it worth it? Is this war worth it? Are people worth it? Am _I_ worth it?”

Still by the door, Charlie watched Dean hunch over, listened as Dean’s questions grew quieter with each word. She pursed her lips. She could not answer Dean. No one could. She did, however, recognize how her friend held back his real question. She did not push him. She had her own secrets to keep, too. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Dean turned around, flashing Charlie an unconvincing grin. “Garth’s the hero and here I am making it all about me. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

“Uh-uh. No way, mister.” Charlie pressed her back against the door before Dean could cross the floor. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

Dean did not bother to hide his relief. He ran a hand through his hair and caught his scent. “Yikes. You sure I shouldn’t wash up first?”

“It’s fine,” Charlie said. “I’ll… hold my nose.”

Charlie settled back into her bed, the sheets still rumpled from her previous exit. Dean sat on top of the covers on the opposite side, rigid as a board, and stared at the ceiling. 

“Dean, sweetheart, you can relax. I’m not gonna do anything.” Charlie rolled on her side to face Dean. “You’re not really my type, remember?”

“What? Ew, gross, Charlie. You’re like my sister.”

Charlie laughed. “There. You finally admitted it.”

Dean gasped in mock horror. He willed himself to relax. It had been a long time since he shared a bed with someone without taking off his clothes. It was nice.

“I love you,” Charlie said.

“I know.”

“Then know I say this with love: you gotta stop living like this.”

“Like what?” Dean spoke innocently, as if he did not already know the answer.

“The drinking. The bar fights. The sleeping your way through the Capital.”

“What? A guy’s gotta let off a bit of steam now and then.”

“There’s letting off steam and then there’s being self-destructive.” Charlie reached across the bed, laying her hand on Dean’s arm. “Sam agrees with me, you know.”

“Yeah, well, Sam’s not my mom.”

“He’s worried about you. We all are.”

Dean fought the urge to shrug off Charlie’s hand. She was right. Sam was right. Dean did not want to admit it. Ever since he and Sam returned from Hell-- from Purgatory-- Dean had not been the same. He lost the last of his innocence when his father cut the chain. He left a piece of himself behind when he escaped Purgatory.

Dean opened his mouth, expecting to come up with a sarcastic retort. Instead, he said, “Yeah. You’re right.”

“That guy you were with tonight?” Charlie patted his arm. “Did he do anything to help? Has any of it helped lately?”

“No.”

“Then why do you keep doing this?”

It was a fair question, one Dean was unsure he could answer. Charlie had not met him before his knighthood, before his trip to Hell, before he lost Castiel, and even she could tell he was failing to cope. Charlie did not push Dean to answer. She took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze before she rolled over.

Dean remained awake, staring up at the ceiling, and considered Charlie’s question. He knew why. Of course he knew why. He had spent the last five years in mourning, unable to find closure. 

There was no body. People still spoke of the Angel on street corners, expecting him to rise again in their hour of need. Dean could not know if Castiel survived. Dean knew it was unlikely. He closed his eyes and could see that final image of Castiel before Dean was shoved through the portal in perfect detail. A part of him refused to believe that was the Angel’s end: lost in a different dimension to save a couple of nobody humans. To save Dean.

So, Dean kept looking for Castiel-- even if he did not admit it-- finding pieces of him in the bodies of all those he followed home. He took those pieces to bed, worshiping them, because he never got the chance to have the real thing. He slept in their beds instead of his own to stave off the nightmares. Dean’s constant search was not working, was not helping him, but he kept doing it because, maybe, somehow, the next one would be who he was looking for. 

“He wasn’t Cas,” Dean whispered into the silent room. It was a confession, a secret he never shared, not even with himself. “None of them were.”

⁂

Ash sank into the cot with a heartfelt sigh. He nearly fell asleep. He caught himself before he ripped a hole in the tent wall. Sam ignored Ash’s squeak and set the last bottle on the supply table. Most of the bottles were empty. They had to use a lot of their medicine in the last few years. The herbs could not grow fast enough for their needs. 

“That’s all we got?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Ash said. “Gotta wait for more supplies to come in or for more to grow. ‘Til then, we just gotta hold on.”

“You think we can?”

“We gotta.” Ash stood and faced Sam. “Anyway, I’m beat. Me and Aaron are off to try out a new herb if you wanna join us.”

“C’mon, Ash,” Sam huffed. “You know I don’t touch that stuff anymore.”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best.” Ash reached up, trying to pat Sam on the head. Sam stretched himself to his full height. Ash settled with a bop on Sam’s nose. “Well, we’ll report back our findings. See you tomorrow, little dude.” 

Sam laughed at the nickname as he left Ash’s tent. It was hard to be offended when, these days, he towered over most people. He finally hit his growth spurt after his return from Hell. 

Swept along with Dean’s rapid climb to knighthood, Sam proved himself as a scholar, a healer, and a competent fighter when he needed to be. Ash took Sam on as his assistant then his co-leader not long after that. The Long War changed everything. Any able-bodied recruits were thrown into the front lines. The army-- Dean most of all-- did what they could to train them but, with the rapid advance of the Creatures, most recruits either got good fast or dead faster.

Every day, Sam patched up an endless string of injured recruits, some of them so young Sam wanted to send them home. Instead, he sent them back out to the battlefield. He had to. He tried not to think about it. He kept busy with work. 

Sam exited the healer’s enclosure and headed straight for the library. Frank’s permanent scowl softened when he saw Sam. Sam nodded to him and let him return to his work. All the scholars spent their days searching ancient tomes for information on the Creatures. King Adam ordered them to find a way to end the War. It was a decree the scholars followed eagerly, Sam included. 

While he no longer needed to sneak, Sam lightened his steps when he reached the restricted section. The table Sam dragged into an empty corner years ago groaned under the weight of Sam’s selected books. He sat in his chair, picked the topmost one, and got to work.

The final bell tolled before Sam looked up. He placed yet another unhelpful book in the finished pile and stretched his arms over his head. His spine popped, grateful for the relief. Sam sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. He could do more. He wanted to do more but his mind would not stop wandering. It always did in the spring. 

Sam ran his hands through his-- far too long, according to Dean-- hair and stood. He refused to think about Hell. He refused to think about his father, his brother and, most of all, he refused to think about Castiel. 

On his way out, Sam stopped at a familiar empty shelf. The book was no longer there. The first thing Sam did upon his return was to burn it out behind Andrea’s Tavern. It was the right thing to do but Sam had to wonder if it held the answers to the Realm’s current predicament.

Sam bit his lip and reminded himself he was no longer dwelling on the past. He continued forward. 

His past came out to meet him. When Sam returned to the main part of the library, he saw a vision in white, just like he had so many years ago.

“Jessica,” Sam whispered, unable to say anything else.

“Hey, Sam.” Jessica stood in the library doorway. Sam remained on the other side of the room. She pursed her lips and pushed a stray strand of long blonde hair behind her ear. “You got tall.”

“I thought you went back to your village?” 

Sam did not think that. He knew that. A few days after his return to the Capital, Sam went to the maid’s quarters. It took him days to find answers. None of the maids wanted to talk to him. Eventually, he learned that Jessica returned home the spring Sam was taken to Hell because her mother was sick. She had not left a note. Sam did not blame her. Sam had not been a part of her life before he disappeared. He had not even known her mother was unwell. He was too busy trying to please Ruby. 

“I did,” Jessica said, “but there’s no village there anymore. And, well, there was nothing left there for me, anyway.”

“Your mother?”

“And then the werewolves.” Jessica stepped into the library, stopping a few feet from Sam. “Have you been checking up on me?”

“I--” Sam messed up his already frazzled hair even more. “Just a little. All that crazy going on, I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Sam steadfastly refused to look up. He did not see Jessica move closer. “I thought about writing, or, or something, but I figured you wouldn’t wanna hear from me again so I--”

Jessica pressed two fingers against Sam’s chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. She smiled. “You’re right. I didn’t for a while. But, you know, time has a way of putting things into perspective.” 

Sam risked leaning closer. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I think we should get to know each other again. We’re not stupid teenagers anymore, right?”

“Right,” Sam breathed, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“I got my old job back.” Jessica shrugged. “I’m willing to try again, if the mighty scholar and healer Sam Winchester doesn’t mind being seen with a lowly maid.”

“Are you _kidding_? You--”

Sam could not think of any more words. He wrapped his arms around Jessica. She released a relieved sigh and held him close. He rested his chin in her hair and breathed. 

⁂

Everyone spoke in hushed whispers. In the full dining hall, people ate their food quietly and quickly to finish their meal before needing to rush to their next job. Sam hurried along with them. His carefully portion controlled meal-- the harvest had been interrupted by zombie raids so food stores ran low-- was almost complete by the time Charlie sat down beside him.

“Well,” she said, digging into her plate, “I talked to Dean.”

“Really?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “Did you have to corner him?”

“No. He showed up at my door last night and stayed over.” Charlie’s fork clanged against her plate. She stared across the dining hall, debating her next words. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Who’s Cas?” 

Sam picked the worst possible time to finish his drink. After he coughed the water out of his lungs, he said, “Wait, wait. He actually _said_ ‘Cas?’ Like, out loud?”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure he thought I was asleep but, yeah, he did.” Charlie picked up her fork and pushed the food around on her plate. “Is that so weird?”

Dean did not talk about Castiel, about their father, about Hell, about Purgatory, about any of it. If Sam tried to utter even the first syllable to any question tied to those events, Dean would shut Sam down immediately. Dean developed some new power that let him detect the moment Sam wanted to talk about it. Sam would throw up his hands and move on. 

Not talking about it was killing Dean, Sam knew, but there was no way for him to get through to his brother. That was why he asked for Charlie’s help. She did not know them five years ago and Sam hoped that fact would allow Dean to open up a little. 

“It’s weird,” Sam said, “and a really big step.” 

Before Charlie could speak, a new plate clattered against the table. Dean slipped into the seat opposite Sam. Sam jumped back from Charlie. In his haste, he slid off the bench. Dean’s blank expression never wavered as he watched Sam struggle back into his seat. 

“Okay,” Dean said once Sam settled, “what are you nerds conspiring about?”

“Nothing,” Sam and Charlie said together, a perfect chorus of innocence. 

“What are you doing here?” Sam asked, barreling over Dean’s incredulous stare, “You haven’t been to the dining hall in months.”

“I’ve been told by a reliable source that I am…” Dean gave pointed looks to Charlie then Sam. “Self-destructive? I believe that was the term used.” 

“The first step is admitting it,” Charlie said brightly.

Dean rolled his eyes then busied himself with his meal. Sam and Charlie exchanged tentative smiles, both of them bursting with the need to say something and the knowledge that they should not. They returned to their meals. 

It was quiet in the dining hall these days. Whispers from the next table floated over to Sam’s group, easy to catch in their silence.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” a girl asked. 

“Who?” asked a boy.

“Sir Winchester. You know, the one who took the Angel’s sword.”

“Took? I thought he inherited it.”

“That’s what the crown wants us to think. My granddaddy says that Winchester was the last person to see the Angel alive and he won’t tell anyone what happened. My granddaddy says he hid the Angel somewhere no one can find all because he wanted the king’s attention.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you? Your grandad’s ninety and thinks the elder puts mind control potion in the well.”

“I don’t know. But don’t you think it’s a little strange that the Angel hasn’t been seen for five years? I mean, he’s supposed to be here in our hour of need, right? So, where is he?”

Dean finished his meal. He did not change his expression. He did not speak. He did nothing but calmly set his fork on his empty plate. Sam knew it was impossible for him to miss the discussion. 

“So, uh, nice weather we’re having these days, huh?” Charlie spoke loud, trying to drown out the voices.

Dean did not answer. 

“You know,” Sam said, “I’m working on a new medicine. If it works, we’ll be able to use less willow bark. We’ve been getting low.”

Dean did not hear him.

“I’m gonna go,” Dean announced. He stood abruptly from his seat.

“Dean,” Sam said. “Don’t let them--”

Dean cut him off with a raised hand. “Oh, that? My name’s Winchester. I’ve heard worse. Much worse.”

Dean turned his gaze to the whisper’s table. When the boy and girl noticed him, they were shocked into silence. Dean waved, the smile on his face far from friendly. The girl and boy scurried from the dining hall, abandoning their unfinished meals. Dean helped himself to a piece of bread. He left with his head held high, knowing that Sam and Charlie watched him with worried eyes.

“I gotta wonder,” Charlie said, “why they always give Dean a hard time. I mean, I don’t know a whole lot about what happened, but you were there too.”

“Dean keeps them off my back,” Sam said, “and, well, I wasn’t the one who studied under him or travelled with him or was given his sword. I was his friend, sure, but…” Sam tapped his fingers against the table. “Dean and Cas always had a different kind of bond.”

When Sam stood in the sea cave-- still reeling from the portal and his own exhaustion-- and watched Dean try to claw his way through the wall, he finally figured it out. A broken heart was hard to fix and Sam was not sure if Dean knew why it shattered in the first place. 

“Hold on.” Charlie worked her jaw up and down a few times, unable to form a complete thought. “Hold on! You’re telling me Cas is the freaking _Angel_?”

“It’s actually Castiel.” Sam shrugged. “Most people don’t ask for his name.”

“So, so he’s not like, some glow-y force of destruction or salvation or whatever.”

“He was--” Sam cleared his throat. “He _is_ just a guy.” 


	26. Sometimes Goodbye is a Second Chance

Smoothing his hair back, hoping it made him look a little less hungover, Dean approached the throne room. The guards nodded to him and opened the doors wide. Joining Captain Singer, Dean stood before the Throne of Gold and stared into the eyes of the king.

The people of the Realm rarely called King Adam the Bastard King after the Balthazar’s raid almost six years ago. That day, King Adam learned he and his city were not invincible. He opened shelters to assist people displaced by the raid. He provided supplies to make sure no child went hungry. He stood from his Throne of Gold, walked down the halls into the library, and spent every spare second studying how to be an effective leader. In only his eighteenth year, young King Adam proved himself to be a king of the people. 

King Adam stepped off the platform to greet Dean and the Captain on equal footing. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, sire,” Captain Singer said.

“I wish to offer my condolences,” King Adam said, speaking directly to Dean. “I will make sure to honour Garth’s memory.”

Dean would not have said anything if it was not for the Captain’s well-placed kick to his shin. “Uh, thanks.”

The Captain shot him a reproachful look but King Adam was not offended. In fact, he smiled.

“Anyway, that wasn’t why I called you.” King Adam’s smile faded. “I need something from you, Sir Winchester.”

“Lots of people do,” Dean said.

“So I’ve heard,” King Adam said. 

The king raised an eyebrow. Dean did not break eye contact but he felt heat rise under his collar. So he broke a tavern window or two. Those guys were jerks anyway. Dean paid for it. Well, he paid for it after a few muscle-bound debt collectors came to his door. How they made it into the castle mystified everyone but security became much tighter after the incident. If anything, Dean figured they should be thanking him. Instead, the Captain yelled at him and buried him under piles of paperwork. The Captain could not demote Dean. He was the best soldier they had. Dean knew he lucked out. 

“Right, right.” Dean cleared his throat. “What did you need?” 

“The Angel.”

Dean went rigid. The Captain, unable to hide his surprise at the king's words, glanced at Dean.

“Your Majesty,” Captain Singer supplied when Dean failed to answer, “Dean-- er, Sir Winchester-- has already told you that the Angel cannot be reached.”

“Exactly! ‘Cannot be reached.’ Not missing. Not dead.” The king closed in on Dean. “You were the one who saw him last. Therefore, you know where he is.”

When Dean returned from Purgatory, he was sat before an audience and forced to give his statement. He felt like he was on a sick parade, made to recount over and over again the status of the Angel before he had a chance to process it all himself. 

Dean told as much of the truth as he could but he knew no one would believe him about Purgatory, about how Castiel was lost in that separate dimension. Even the Realm’s greatest scholars did not know of its existence. The best explanation Dean could concoct for the rows upon rows of people looming over him was that the Angel was unreachable. 

“I-- I already--” Dean stumbled over his words. “I already--”

“I know!” King Adam backed away. He turned around, his head tilted up toward his throne. “I know. But my people are desperate. These-- These _monsters_ are destroying my peoples’ lives. They’re losing hope. And, when the people lose hope--”

“They speak of the Angel,” Captain Singer finished. 

King Adam nodded. 

“He’s just a guy,” Dean said. “I-- I don’t know if he’s alive. I didn’t see him d--” Dean could not say the word, even now. “It’s been five years. Anything could’ve happened.”

“I am aware of that.” When King Adam faced the room, Dean could see the decisive leader the people admired but he could also see the boy underneath. “I could be wasting time chasing a legend. I could be mad. I could be making the worst mistake of my rule. I don’t know. All I know is that, if things continue as they are now, the Long War will consume us. We need the Angel.”

Dean licked his lips. He did not say anything. He knew what was coming. He stared into the eyes of the king and waited.

“Dean Winchester,” the king said, his voice booming with authority, “I command you to find the Angel. Learn of his fate. Do everything you can to bring him home.” 

⁂

The door slammed behind Dean, echoing in his ears with finality. He leaned against it, gasping for air as his heart pounded against his chest. He slumped and blinked the wetness from his eyes. 

Dean thought about this many times. Not a year went by without him considering leaving it all behind-- leaving the army, leaving his friends, even leaving his brother-- to follow the small, shining piece of hope still hidden in Dean’s heart. Dean wanted Castiel to be alive. He wanted it so badly he worried that he fooled himself into believing it was true. 

Now he was going to find out. 

Castiel could be dead.

But he could be alive.

And he could come home. 

Dean clenched his jaw, stood up straight, and walked into his room for the first time in weeks. He stripped down to his undershirt and trousers, sighing as the weight of his armour lifted. He threw the unused garments onto his desk, thick dust flying into the air in response. 

The room, bigger than the one Dean shared with Sam at Harvelle’s and Andrea’s Tavern combined, overwhelmed Dean with its emptiness. His trunk, the one he used since childhood, held everything he owned. It was eclipsed by the size of the bed. Dean stared at the bare shelves on the back wall and wondered if he was ever going to move in. 

Kneeling in front of the trunk, Dean ran his palms over the wood, smoothed by time. He smiled at the blackened spot near the edge, the result of a much younger Sam’s failed experiment. Dean opened the trunk, threw papers and clothes every which way, set aside the alcohol bottles, placed the pouch which held a ring and a single silver coin into his pocket, and reached the bottom. Dean sat back and eyed one of the bottles before he reached in. 

The Angel’s sword-- the jewels glittered through the holes in the worn cloth Castiel wrapped around it so long ago-- had not been used since Purgatory. Dean shoved it to the bottom of the trunk and buried it the moment he had the chance. He never carried it, instead preferring to use the sword Charlie designed for him. Dean unsheathed the Angel's blade, staring at his bloodshot eyes in the metal’s reflection, and ran his finger over the edge. Time had not dulled the sword’s shine or sharpness. It did not gleam.

Dean snapped it shut, scoffing at his patheticness. He did not know what he expected to happen. It was just a sword. 

He replaced the contents of the trunk, keeping one hand on the sword. When it came time to put it away, Dean cradled it in his arms. 

“Cas, you bastard,” Dean whispered into his lap. “What were you thinking, man?”

The sword clashed against the bottles in the trunk. Dean let the lid fall closed. 

⁂

Sam settled into bed with a groan, back aching after spending so much time hunched over his desk. He should have asked for a better chair. A taller table, too.

He saw Jessica that afternoon, for a short moment while she hurried between tasks. They were talking, walking side by side when they crossed paths, and exchanging pleasant greetings when they saw each other in the hallways. It was not much but Sam let Jessica take things as slowly as she needed. Sam had been given a second chance. He was not going to squander it. 

Just as Sam drifted off to sleep, a soft knock at his door made him sit up. He thought he imagined it but he opened the door anyway. Dean stood in the doorway, a sheepish grin on his face.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean said. “We never talk anymore.”

“We talked at lunch,” Sam mumbled, sleep heavy in his voice. As Dean let himself in, Sam lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes.

“Yeah, and it got me thinking. I miss our little talks.”

Sam squinted at Dean, unable to see his face in the dark. “Are you drunk?”

“I am stone cold sober, little brother.” Dean shoved Sam’s calf. “Now scoot.”

“What?”

“Scoot. Your gigantor limbs are in the way.”

Too tired to protest any further, Sam complied with Dean’s request. Dean made a satisfied sound then lay on his back on the other side of the bed. 

“What do you want?” Sam asked after Dean did nothing but breathe loudly enough to be annoying.

“Like I said: we never talk! So, what’s been going on in your life these days, Sam?”

Dean’s question was airy and teasing but, when Sam gave up on sleep and opened his eyes, he could see how tightly Dean wrapped his arms over his chest. Even in the barest of moonlight coming in from the window, Sam noticed Dean’s clenched fists.

“Uh, same old, mostly.” Sam gathered the covers around his chin. “I’ve, uh, I’ve been talking to Jessica.”

“Really? How’s that going?”

“Good, I think. I hope. She gave me a second chance.”

“Second chance, huh?” Dean’s remark was quiet and thoughtful. His hand drifted into his pocket, his fingers running over smooth metal. He took it out and held the ring out to Sam. “Here.”

Sam blinked, trying to figure out the glimmer in Dean's hand. When he touched it, his heart jumped into his mouth.

“Dean. This is-- This is mom’s ring. You never let me touch it. Why--”

Dean used one hand to open Sam’s palm. With the other, he put the ring into Sam’s hand and closed his fingers. 

“‘Cause you might need it,” Dean said. “You know, if things stay good.”

“We’re just talking, Dean. We’re not even close to that.”

“Life is short, Sammy, especially these days. If you get the chance, take it. Seriously.” Dean leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest once more. “Trust me, you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.” 

Blood rushed in Sam’s ears as he placed the ring on his bedside table. Completely awake now, Sam failed to reply. He could tell that Dean was close now, teetering on the edge of saying how he felt, and all Sam could do was stare at the outline of Dean’s face beside him.

“I miss him, Sam,” Dean whispered, the sound ripped from his throat. “I miss Cas.”

Sam chanced a light touch on Dean’s shoulder and, when his brother did not shrug him off, Sam licked his lips and carefully said, “I know you do.”

Dean nodded, his eyes shining at the edges. He sniffed and cleared his throat. “The king ordered me to find him.”

“Oh. How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I haven’t wanted to. It’s just--” Dean took a deep breath, chewing his bottom lip as he considered his next words. “What if I don’t find him? What if--” Dean cut off and took another breath.

“What if you do?”

All the air left Dean at once. “I don’t know.”

“When are you supposed to leave?”

“A week, maybe? I gotta find a few people to cover my jobs. Pamela’s still out in the mountains waiting for backup. The recruits need training. We gotta get more weapons. The--”

“Dean.” Sam squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “You’ll find him.” 

Dean gripped his hair with both hands. He blinked rapidly as his mind raced. 

“Okay.” He let his hands fall. “Okay.”

After one final squeeze to Dean’s shoulder, Sam rolled onto his other side. Dean made no move to leave. Sam did not kick him out. They stayed together that night, side by side like they had as children. For the first time since they moved to the castle, the brothers slept well.


	27. Awakened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, how about that episode 15x18 last night? I'm still kinda losing my mind over it. [You can see me go wild over on Tumblr. Feel free to shout with me.](https://thisisapaige.tumblr.com/)

The ceremony was short and sweet-- rather fitting for Garth-- and Dean ran out of excuses to delay his journey. After the Captain’s eulogy, Dean waited for the attendees to filter out of the training grounds with Sam alongside him. Dean's pack lay at his feet, filled with provisions, travel necessities, and the Angel’s sword. A lot of people came to pay their respects to Garth: those he commanded, those he saved, and his wide variety of friends. 

“That’s all of them.” Sam rested his hand on Dean’s back, touching the soft fabric of his well-worn travel cloak. “Time to go.”

The Captain, already occupied with a line of requests from the knights, waved as the brothers left. They took their time walking to the gate, aware that it would be a long while before they saw each other again. When they reached their destination, it was difficult to say goodbye.

“Well, um, hold down the fort for me,” Dean said. 

“You know I will. You be careful out there,” Sam said.

“Careful is my middle name!” Dean waggled his eyebrows, eliciting a long-suffering sigh from his brother. Dean grinned but made no move to leave. He shuffled his feet. “You know, there’s still stuff to do. Maybe I should--” 

“Aaron has it handled, remember? Relax, Dean, we’ll be fine.” Sam stepped forward and gripped Dean by both shoulders. “Now go find your Angel.”

Sam did not give Dean time to reply. He pulled Dean in, wrapping his arms around his brother. Sam clapped Dean once on the back before releasing him and pushed him toward the gate. By the time Sam gathered himself enough to leave, Dean had long disappeared into the horizon. 

The path out of the Capital was worn and empty. The road needed repairs but the resources went to the walls, to weapons, to anything that could stave off the Creatures of the Night. Only the most fearless merchants, mercenaries in tow, dared to challenge the Creatures lying in wait. 

Dean embarked on his quest alone. He insisted on it, concerned about the attention a large group would attract. When he saw the silent streets, Dean began to regret that decision. 

“Dean, Dean, Dean. You out here on your own? Just about anythin’ could sneak up on you. Lots of Creatures out there nowadays.”

Sword drawn the moment he heard the voice, Dean spun around as he located the source. From the trees on the side of the road, Benny emerged. He grinned and leaned against the nearest tree, a full pack on his shoulders and his weapon in hand. The black blades gleamed wickedly. 

“Benny!” Dean clutched at his chest. “Are you _trying_ to give me a heart attack?” 

Benny hummed and gave a lazy shrug. “Just makin’ my point, brother.” He hoisted his weapon onto his shoulder then joined Dean on the road. “So, need some backup?”

“What? Why? What about the tavern?”

“It’s about time I retired from the bartendin' gig. Jamie’s takin’ over.”

“Seriously? How’d you even know I’d be here?”

“I serve a lotta drunk, chatty soldiers. Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Benny marched down the path, calling over his shoulder as he moved, “You comin’?”

Dean ran to catch up to him. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“Nah,” Benny said with a toothsome smile. “I know where to go. There’s someone you gotta meet before we chase after the chief.” 

“Who?”

“I’ll let you know when we get there. Trust me, brother.”

⁂

“Benny, I’m really regretting that trust right about now.”

Dean knelt in the forest clearing, his hands behind his head alongside Benny. A werewolf pointed Dean’s own sword at him as he rummaged through Dean’s pack. He grabbed the hilt of the Angel’s sword.

“Hey! Don’t touch that!” Dean’s shout shocked the werewolf into dropping the pack. 

“I’m telling you, kid, we’re not the enemy,” Benny said to the werewolf. “Let’s just talk.”

“Dude, it's a werewolf. They--”

Benny’s glare scorched. “Dean. Stop talking.” Benny rose to his feet, keeping his movements slow and obvious. He kept his hands wide open as he approached the werewolf. “Look at me. I’m not your enemy. Neither is the human. I wouldn’t’ve brought him if he was.”

The werewolf studied Benny, his golden eyes calculating. He cast a glance over Benny’s shoulder to Dean. He returned his gaze to Benny and took a step closer to him. 

Dean eyed his discarded pack. He eyed the sword. He reached for it, inch by slow inch. 

“Humans,” the werewolf spat, “kill us first. They don’t _talk._ ”

“I know. Maybe it's time they do.” Benny looked back at Dean, a plea in his eyes that made Dean pause. “They’re not all bad.”

The werewolf lowered the sword. He looked at Dean. “Stand.” After a nod from Benny, Dean complied. The werewolf picked up Dean’s pack then indicated that Benny should carry his own. “Follow.” 

Dean waited for another nod from Benny before he followed the werewolf, unarmed and banking on nothing but trust, into the forest. The sun should have been high in the sky but it was dark under the shadows of tall trees. After leading Dean and Benny through invisible game trails and thick underbrush, the werewolf stopped. Dean, scratched up from twigs and branches, could scarcely believe what he saw.

An arched tree branch marked the entrance of the hidden village, the thick greenery around it acting as a protective wall and camouflage. If he were on his own, Dean would have walked right past it. The werewolf led them to through the village-- every building made of tree logs and clay-- stopping at the largest cabin. They met no one on their way. 

When the werewolf knocked on the door, Lenore answered. Her mouth dropped open when she saw the group. She paid Dean little mind.

“Benny,” she said, “you’ve returned to us.”

“Nah, not really,” Benny said. “Just here for a chat.”

The werewolf held out Dean’s belongings to Lenore. “The human had this.”

Lenore placed Dean’s sword on the table by her door. Next, she took the pack and checked the contents. As soon as she saw the Angel’s sword, she focused on Dean, the unnatural glare in her eye rooting him in place.

“It seems we have much to talk about,” Lenore said.

She dismissed the werewolf, who left in a hurry, and ushered Dean and Benny into her cabin. Benny dropped his pack and weapon by the doorway and marched directly to the old armchair in Lenore’s front room. He propped his dirty boots on the table and rested his arms behind his head.

“Seriously, Lenore, I know it’s been a while,” Benny said, “but your guard dog had no clue about me.”

“He’s young. They all are,” Lenore said, her back pressed against the table where Dean’s sword rested. “The War has taken its toll on us, as well.” 

“Uh.” Standing by the door, Dean’s head bounced between Benny and Lenore. He settled on her. “You’re not gonna bite me or eat me or--”

“No. Those who live here only feed on wildlife,” Lenore said. 

“Okay.” Dean reached behind him, feeling for the doorknob. “So, you’re a monster and I think I’ll just--”

“Dean.” Benny’s interjection made Dean jump. “Listen to her. We’re not your enemy.” 

“‘We’re not--’” Dean’s laugh was more of a squeak. “Okay. So you’re also--”

“Your friend. A mighty fine bartender. Former pirate. Widower. No so great father.” Benny stood from his chair and opened his mouth. His fangs descended. “And, oh yeah, a vampire.”

“Not all of us are monsters,” Lenore said. She picked up Dean’s sword and held it out to him, hilt first. 

“We call ourselves the Awakened,” Benny said. 

“Because we broke free of the Metatron’s control.” Lenore raised the sword, the point of the blade over her heat. “The Angel heard our plea. Will you?”

Dean looked at Lenore then, really looked. She stared back, her tired face showing a familiar expression. The king had it. Castiel had it. These days, Dean saw it in the mirror. 

It was the expression of someone who was weighed down by the many lives which relied on them. It was the expression of someone who could not give up. It was the expression of a leader. 

Dean wrapped his hand around the sword hilt. Lenore let go. Every instinct, everything he had been taught, told Dean to run her through. He did not. Dean lowered the sword and sheathed it back into its rightful place on his hip. 

Lenore led him into the cabin. She sat on the bench beside Benny’s armchair, her hair concealing her face as she leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees. Dean took the chair across from them, the carving on the armrest so worn Dean could not guess what the design once was. 

“So, uh--” Dean clicked his tongue, not quite looking at the reseated Benny. “How long have you been a vampire?”

“A few centuries,” Benny said. 

“A few--”

“C’mon, brother. You hung out with the Angel-- who's literally older than dirt-- and got an issue with me?”

“No! Maybe. I mean--” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “You run a tavern.”

“Piratin’ lost its appeal after I Awakened.” He shrugged. “Figured I’d try somethin’ new.”

“How do you even eat?”

“I cut a deal with the butcher. She’s got a taste for eastern wines.”

Lenore clapped her hands once. “We have more important things to discuss. I need to know why you have the Angel’s sword.” She gestured to the Dean’s pack, where it sat under the table by the door.

Dean squirmed under Lenore’s gaze. He tried to catch Benny’s eye for help, but he was suddenly very interested in a spot on the floor. 

“He-- He gave it to me?” Dean did not know why he phrased it as a question. It was the truth. Lenore’s disbelieving stare caught him off guard.

“What? That’s it?” Lenore asked.

“I lost my own sword,” Dean offered weakly.

“He just handed it to you?”

“Yes.” Dean crossed his arms and raised his chin. “What’s your problem?” 

"The Angel hasn't been seen in years. When I saw his sword I thought he--"

Dean's fingers scraped against the wooden armrests. The words Dean wanted to say-- Dean wanted to shout-- faded away when he noticed Lenore watching him, her inhuman eyes shining in a very human way.

"I feel like I'm missing something here," Dean said.

"Yeah, same here," Benny said. "What’re you playing at, Lenore?"

Lenore folded her hands in her lap, twisting her hands around each other. She bit her lip and never looked away from Dean. 

"Did he make it?" she asked. "Did he make it to Purgatory?"

Dean floundered for a response. "What--"

"Lenore." Benny stood over her. "What did you do?"

Lenore rubbed her hands together then tilted her head back to see Benny. "I told him everything. I asked for his help."

"With what?"

"We're not all monsters. If we could break our brethren free--"

"You want to _Awaken_ them? Do you know how hard that is? I could never--"

"Of course I know!" Lenore jumped from her seat. "Is it any better to be killed by scared humans? To kill them in return? If we could free the Creatures from the Metatron then he'd lose his army. This War could end. And--" She shook her head and clutched her hands over her heart. "We could live."

"Hi," Dean said. Benny and Lenore startled and looked at Dean. He waved. "Human here. Would like to know what's going on?"

Lenore glanced at Benny, who returned to his chair and said nothing. She sat on her bench, leaned forward, and spoke.

⁂

Stay away from the water.

That was Lenore's very first piece of advice so, of course, that was where Castiel needed to go. He did not rush headlong into danger. He bided his time, followed the trail, and tested his theories before he dived headfirst into danger. Completely different.

Time passed in Purgatory but Castiel could not say how many days he spent there. The sun never moved from its place just above the horizon. The trees did not change. The only thing that grew in Purgatory was Castiel's hair and beard. Luckily he carried enough knives to keep it under control.

Castiel leaned against the tall tree. That was the tall tree beside the group of ferns rather than the shrubs. There was not a whole lot of variety in the washed out world of Purgatory.

His tri-edged blade in hand, Castiel waited. He did a lot of waiting these days: waiting for his traps to engage, waiting for the right Creature to find him, and waiting for the large groups to pass him by. A one man-- one Angel-- army had to exercise constant patience. He closed his eyes and listened.

A crack sounded from Castiel left. Good. That meant his pit trap which made the next step easier. Slightly. 

Castiel waited until the sounds of struggle subsided. He waited until the swearing started. Any more waiting and other Creatures would investigate, so it was time for Castiel to finish the job.

"Angel," his prey snarled when Castiel crouched at the pit's edge. 

Castiel squinted and tilted his head as the young vampire caught in his trap pawed at the dry, brittle dirt which made up his prison. The young vampire had not been in Purgatory long but all Creatures of the Night learned to fear the Angel. Many of them ended up in Purgatory after falling to his blade. Many of them fell to him a second time. 

The Angel, they said, would kill them all.

But Castiel was not killing them. At least, he did not intend to. The young vampire, glaring up at Castiel with hate in his eyes, was his final test.

The rocks and dirt scattered as Castiel slid down the trap wall. The vampire scampered out of Castiel's path, putting as much space between them as possible. When Castiel reached the bottom, he stood up straight and watched the vampire. 

Castiel waited.

"You're gonna kill me, right?" The vampire adopted a defensive stance. "I mean, that's what you do, right? Kill us?"

Castiel waited.

"I already died once! What happens when I do it again?"

Though he presented an interesting philosophical question, Castiel waited.

The vampire hissed and launched himself at Castiel. Castiel did not move. He waited. The vampire, full force of fury behind his charge, came to a dead stop before he reached Castiel. 

"Castiel," the Metatron said through the vampire, "here we are again."

Castiel's response was a grin, grown feral over his time in Purgatory. He reached out, one hand on either side of the vampire's head, and gathered his power. 

"Awaken," Castiel commanded.

His power filled the pit. It glowed brighter than the hidden sun, brighter than grey colours around them, brighter than Purgatory had ever known. When it faded away, the vampire fell to his knees before Castiel.

The power attracted attention from all across Purgatory. Every Creature within the place would investigate the disruption. Castiel knew he needed to run, needed to hide, but he also needed to know.

Castiel sank to the floor, breaths heaving, and grabbed the vampire's face. The vampire did not fight him or hiss. Castiel's heart beat faster. It had to have worked. It had to.

When the vampire opened his eyes, all traces of the Metatron were gone. 

The vampire cried.

⁂

"We were human once," Lenore said. "Mother never meant for us to be like this. The Metatron is like a wound in our souls."

"A wound?" Dean gasped. "That's what he's doing. He's healing them."


	28. Freed (I Can't Get Out)

“Dean. Dean! Hold on, brother! What’s the rush?”

Benny chased after Dean’s abrupt exit, shouting from Lenore's doorway. Once Dean realized Castiel’s plan, he was up and out of his chair without a goodbye

“Look,” Dean said, “if that idiot is planning on healing all of Purgatory, then I don’t have the time to just sit around and talk. So I’m going. No more detours.”

“C’mon, brother. It was just a couple days. I mean, what’s that to a couple years? we can--”

“Five years! Five years and I just left him there to--”

Guilt gnawed at Dean. He had no idea-- no idea-- that Castiel had other plans when they went to rescue Sam. Dean spent all that time with him but never suspected a thing. Every conversation they had flashed through Dean’s mind: every time Castiel stumbled over his words, every time Castiel smiled sadly at Dean talking about the future. Dean should have known. 

He should have _known._

And now, Castiel had spent the last five years in Purgatory healing the Creatures within it while Dean had done nothing to find him. If Castiel used his power that whole time, then Dean could not be sure of just how much time-- how much life-- Castiel gave away. Dean had to reach Castiel before he lost all of it.

If he had not already. 

“I’m going to find him,” Dean said, stomping down Lenore’s porch steps, “so I can tell him he is a fucking moron!”

Various Creatures of all ages and sizes stared at the shouting human. Dean reached the ground, realizing he had no idea how to get out of the hidden village, and froze when he noticed them. Eyes glowing, fangs bared, and hands on swords, the Creatures and Dean waited to see who would make the first move. 

“Dean? Dean, is that really you?”

Dean squinted into the fading light, searching among the many faces watching him. “Who--”

“Golly! It really is! I’m so glad to see you.” 

Garth emerged from the shadows, a blonde woman reaching out to hold him back. Garth gave her a reassuring pat on the arm as he broke from the group. He opened his arms wide, the same friendly smile on his face. It faltered when Dean did not move. 

“What’s the matter, Dean? Did you see a ghost?”

“ _Garth_?” Dean licked his lips. “I-- you--” Garth nodded encouragingly and let Dean stutter his way to a full thought. “I went to your _funeral_ , man.” 

“Really?” Garth lowered his arms. “That’s nice of ya. Did, uh, did you tell my folks?”

“I sent a message. Did you want me to--”

“No, no. That’s probably for the best.”

“Garth,” the blonde woman stepped forward, making sure to keep her distance from Dean, “he’s human and you’re so new. You should be careful.”

“It’s fine, Bess,” Garth said. “Dean’s a friend.”

“What does she think I’m gonna do?” 

“Oh, no. It’s not about you, Dean.” Garth shrugged. “She’s worried I’m gonna eat your heart.”

“Eat my--” Reflexively, Dean’s hand went to his sword. The Creatures hissed until he took it away. “Garth. What happened to you?”

“Well, I thought I died back in that village.” Garth moved closer to Dean and raised one hand into the light. “But, uh”-- Garth’s fingernails extended, becoming a claw-- “I didn’t.”

Garth’s claw retracted. Bess came closer and rested a hand on his arm. 

“Garth’s our newest family member," she said. "He Awakened in record time. He’s shown such control.”

Garth gave Bess a shy smile, one she returned. “Because I have a great teacher.” Garth turned to Dean. “I know we were taught to take down all the monsters-- the Creatures, I mean-- but, Dean, these are good people. My people. I know you were talking to the boss. She wants to end the War. So do you. Are you going to help us, Dean?”

All the Creatures stared at Dean, their eyes glowing in the setting sun. Dean swallowed. Garth watched him. Lenore and Benny observed him from the porch. Dean looked all around the hidden village and he did not see monsters. He saw people, families, and friends. He saw hope.

“Okay,” Dean said. He turned to Lenore. “What do I need to do?” 

“Find the Angel," she said. “He will show us the way to Heaven. We will defeat the Metatron and end this War.”

⁂

Years of dreaming. Years of training. Years of leading. Years and Dean knew nothing. 

“I don’t know anything at all,” Dean announced when Benny sat beside him on Lenore’s bench.

Benny chuckled. “Well, you figured that out a lot faster than me 'n’ the chief.” 

“What?”

“Nothin’ important.” Benny sat next to Dean, handing him a water skin. 

Dean drank. He coughed. “That’s not water.”

“Nope,” Benny said as he took the water skin back. “Whiskey.” He took a long pull. 

“Right.” Dean eyed the reoffered water skin. “What are you doing?”

“Gettin’ us drunk. ‘Cause we gotta talk about feelings and such.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. Trust me. I’m a professional.”

“Retired professional.” Dean accepted the drink. “What feelings are we talking about?”

Benny rested his elbows on his legs and stared down at his folded hands. He was quiet for a long while, then grabbed the drink out of Dean’s hand. He downed half of it and handed it back. 

Benny sighed and said, “Love.”

Dean finished the whiskey.

“I wasn’t a good guy when I was human. I was a thief, a killer, a pirate. That didn’t change much when I got turned. I just got better at it. But then I met Andrea. She set me straight. She was the reason I Awakened.” Benny smiled, his eyes far away. “She was smart, powerful, and could put up with me.”

“Was?”

“She was human. She got older. I didn’t.” Benny stood and dug through his pack by the door. He produced another bottle. He kept his back to Dean. “But that isn’t how she died.”

The Old Man, the captain of the ship, never forgave Benny’s betrayal. Benny and Andrea ran halfway across the Realm to escape the Old Man’s reach. They spent twenty years together. They let themselves believe they were safe. Then, the Old Man struck.

“He turned her,” Benny said, “and she fell completely under the Metatron’s control.” 

Benny tried everything. He travelled to the furthest reaches of the Realm. He researched magic, artifacts, and forbidden texts. Nothing worked. Andrea joined the Metatron’s army. 

“Don’t know who did it,” Benny said. He handed the near-empty bottle to Dean and sat down. “All I know is that I couldn’t save my wife.”

No response seemed adequate but Dean asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Andrea’s in Purgatory. You’re going to Purgatory. If the Angel really can Awaken us, then--”

“You want to find her.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna be honest with you, brother. I’ll get you to Purgatory. I’ll even help you find the chief. But I ain’t leaving ‘till I find her, monster or no.”

“You want me to leave you behind?” Dean shoved the bottle back into Benny’s hands. “You can’t ask me to do that!”

“Let me put it this way: would you leave before you found your Angel?”

Dean bit back his instant denial. No one would believe it, not even Dean. Benny offered Dean another drink. He took it.

⁂

Another endless day in Purgatory passed. Or maybe it was the same day. Nothing changed so there was no way for Castiel to know for sure. 

Well, that was not entirely true. Something had changed in Purgatory: Castiel. 

Three bodies lay at Castiel’s feet; three Creatures who had not taken well to their Awakening. The fourth watched Castiel flip his bloodied knife over in his hand, his eyes blazing even in the grey Purgatory landscape. The fourth Creature ran. Castiel threw the knife. The Creature did not get far. 

Castiel collected his knife then checked the bodies for anything useful. Nothing in this group. Castiel already amassed enough makeshift weapons to fill a whole tavern. Not that there were any taverns to fill. Castiel wiped his face with the back of his hand. It came away bloody, none of it his own. If only the humans could see him. What would they think of their hero now?

What would Dean think?

No. That did not matter. None of it mattered. He had no past, no future. He was of Purgatory. In Purgatory, the only thing that mattered was the present. The only thing that mattered was the mission. 

The mission that would keep the humans safe. The mission that would keep Dean safe. The mission that would end the Long War.

Castiel stepped over the bodies and receded into the trees. He made it to his shelter of the moment before he let his fatigue drop him to the ground. 

He was tired. He felt tired before but, ever since he Awakened the first vampire, he found it harder and harder to recover. The use of his power, the attacks from Creatures, and the constant isolation took its toll. He could not let it defeat him, not yet, because he still needed to reach the water. He knew he had to do it soon. 

He may have slept. It was difficult to tell but, when he opened his eyes after closing them for one second, a vampire loomed over him. Reflexes slowed, Castiel did not fight back when the vampire straddled him, a hand pressed against his chest to hold him down. The vampire’s sharp fingernails scratched Castiel’s skin, finding one of the many tears in Castiel’s worn leather armour. 

“What did you do to me?” the vampire demanded, “I can’t hear him anymore!”

Castiel squinted at the vampire. He recognized the vampire now as the very first Creature he Awakened. The last time Castiel saw him, he ran after he was released from the pit trap.

“I freed you,” Castiel said.

“Freed me?” The vampire lowered his face to Castiel’s, fingernails digging into his flesh and pinning him down. “You trapped me. I can’t hear the Metatron’s call anymore. I can’t get out.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been calling for us. All of us. Haven’t you noticed how empty this place is? I need to join them but I can’t!” The vampire’s fangs descended. “And it’s your fault!”

Castiel flicked his wrist, the sheath he fashioned from scrap weapons dropping his blade into his hand. The vampire hissed, the rage in his eyes blinding him, and latched onto Castiel’s neck. Castiel waited-- he learned the importance of waiting-- until the vampire lost himself in bloodlust. 

When the vampire relaxed, his hand slid off Castiel’s chest. His arm freed, Castiel struck. He plunged his blade into the vampire’s back, disrupting the feast. Castiel gave his foe no time to recover. He flipped the vampire over, grabbed the knife hidden in his boot, and severed the vampire’s head. The vampire did not have time to scream. 

It was not safe to remain but Castiel did not move. He leaned back, still over the vampire, and stared up at the sky. 

Grey. The sky was as grey as everything else in Purgatory. No sunset. No sunrise. Nothing mattered in Purgatory but the endless battle. 

Castiel stood and recovered his weapons. He used to bury the bodies when he first came to Purgatory. He no longer had the luxury of time. He needed to be his old self. No. He needed to be worse than that.

The Metatron put out a call to all Creatures. Castiel needed to act fast. He emerged from the trees and nothing awaited him. Nothing met him as he walked. Nothing came at him from behind. Nothing approached him from his side or even from his front. The longer he went unbothered, the higher Castiel set his guard. 

He marched onward. The water awaited him.


	29. Hurry Up and Wait

The third vampire went down. Dean, flat on his back in the grass, allowed himself a few seconds to catch his breath. He stared up at the clouds, watching the sunset turn the sky red.

“Bet you’re glad you brought me along now, huh, brother?” 

Dean let Benny pull him to his feet. “Is it just me or are there way more monsters these days?”

“I thought that was the whole point of this little adventure.” Benny raised an eyebrow at Dean’s blank stare.

Dean blinked and licked his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, totally.”

Benny grinned and hummed. “Well, we’re runnin’ outta daylight. Pretty sure you humans don’t have night vision so let’s find a place to camp.”

An hour after sunset, they found a shallow cave Dean deemed acceptably safe. Benny stoked a small fire at the entrance and readied himself to keep watch. Dean lay out his bedroll at the back and attempted to sleep. 

Dean always found it difficult to sleep on the road or sleep in general. On this particular journey, Dean had too many thoughts swirling in his head, and every fighting instinct kept him on high alert. Logically, he knew Benny would keep them safe. Dean trusted Benny and he had proven himself worthy of that trust over and over during their journey. None of that mattered, though, because Dean’s mind was keeping him wide awake. 

Every day, Dean and Benny were closer to their goal. Every day, they were closer to finding Castiel, whatever that meant. Dean did not know what he would learn. Part of him wanted to turn around, go back to the Capital, and forget everything. Another part of him-- a bigger part-- could never do that because there was a chance, a tiny chance, that he could find answers. Of course, the possible answers to his question were what kept him awake. 

There was also that largest part of him: the part that wanted Castiel back.

Benny nodded at Dean when he joined him at the fire. They sat on opposite sides of the cave entrance, not saying a word yet understanding each other completely. They waited, waited for the next day, and waited for answers.

Dean hated waiting.

⁂

The forest greeted Dean and Benny with a whisper. The impossibly large trees blotted out the sky, their leaves trembling in an unfelt wind. Nothing met them as they walked. Dean could not help but feel that the silence was worse than the hellhounds.

Benny watched their backs while Dean led the way, neither of them trusting the quiet. They kept moving after nightfall. When daylight arrived and nothing attacked them, the higher they set their guard. 

When they reached the forest’s edge, they were not ready for who waited for them.

Gleaming, bloodied sword in hand, Balthazar blocked the path to the beach. He wiped his sword clean and sheathed it when he heard Dean and Benny arrive. 

The second Dean noticed the shadow before them, Dean went right for his sword. Balthazar rolled his eyes and raised his arms over his head. The action was enough to make Dean hesitate. He paused, realizing who stood before him for the first time. Benny hovered over Dean’s shoulder, ready to follow his lead.

“What do you want?” Dean asked through gritted teeth. 

“What? No hello? So rude,” Balthazar said.

“You stabbed my brother.”

“He got better.” 

Dean raised his sword. He knew he was outmatched. Balthazar was a full-powered Celestial. Dean was a human. It did not stop Dean from surging forward. Benny grabbed Dean’s shoulder to stop his charge. 

“I believe,” Benny said, yanking Dean to stop him from struggling, “he asked what you wanted.”

Balthazar assessed Benny. “You know, I was wondering why this vampire wasn’t eating you.”

“They’re not all monsters,” Dean said.

“I know! Wild, right?” Balthazar dropped his arms. “Awakened. Who knew?”

“Are you gonna answer the question or not?” Benny asked. 

Balthazar sighed and stepped forward, raising his hands again when Benny placed himself in front of Dean. “If I was going to hurt you I would have already. You’re here to help Cassie, right?”

At first, Dean wanted to deny it. Instead, he waited. He tapped Benny on the back as a signal to stand down, then moved in closer to look Balthazar in the eye. There, Dean saw something very familiar. 

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Why’re you asking?”

“That means you need to get to Purgatory.” Balthazar closed the remaining distance. “To do that, you’ll need me.”

Dean kept eye contact. “Why do you say that?”

“You know, this will be a lot quicker if we move on.” Faster than humanly possible, Balthazar seized hold of Benny and Dean.

Dean blinked and he was in Meg’s kitchen. Meg turned around, the bottle slipping from her hand when she saw her three new arrivals. Glass shattered at her feet.

Meg groaned. “Couldn’t you knock first?” 

Balthazar barked out a laugh. "Hey, look at that. We got one of each species." 

Meg grumbled, cutting her bare feet on the glass as she obtained another bottle. She mused over her selection, ignoring her new arrivals. After she chose her bottle, she leaned against the counter, her sunken eyes defiant as she sized up Balthazar. 

“You gonna let me finish this one before you kill me?” Meg popped the cork then raised the bottle as if she were toasting the room.

“I’m not here to kill you,” Balthazar said.

“Really?” Meg flipped back her greasy hair. “Last time you were here that was your plan.”

“That was over twenty years ago.”

“Clarence might not hold a grudge. But I do.” She raised her head, exposing her neck. “If you are here to kill me, well, I’d let you this time. Just let me finish this drink first.”

Dean grabbed the bottle from Meg’s hand. “What’s up with you?”

Meg made no effort to stop Dean. “Hey, look, it’s the guy who destroyed Hell and stole the one guy who’d give a shit I’m gone.” 

“Stole? What are you even--”

“Whatever. Give me that.” Meg snatched the bottle back. 

“Come on,” Balthazar said. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?”

“Nah,” Meg said.

“I was sent down here with a whole army of Creatures. All of which I killed to keep a damn _human_ alive”-- Balthazar indicated Dean-- “and now, since the Metatron can see through all those Creatures, I’m a traitor.”

“Yeah, I really don’t care.” 

“And, on top of that,” Balthazar continued as if Meg had not spoken, “I’m hanging out in a Demon’s house and not killing her, all because I’m trying to save a guy who definitely doesn’t love me anymore.”

While Dean and Meg stared at Balthazar with open mouths, Benny sighed. He slipped away from the group, helping himself to one of the many bottles on the shelf as he went by. No one noticed him. He sat at the kitchen table and sat back, kicking his feet up on the table. He sipped his drink to make it last and watched the group. Benny could not help but notice Castiel attracted a certain type. 

“Really?” Meg rolled her eyes. “You seem so sure he’s alive.”

“Because I am sure,” Balthazar said.

“Face it. He’s gone for good. He’s probably d--”

“He’s not.”

“And how are you so sure, huh? Because he--”

“Because I’d know!” Balthazar’s eyes flashed and the smell of rain filled the room. He turned his back to the group. “I’d know because you don’t spend a thousand years with someone without forming a bond, alright?” 

Meg scoffed into her drink. 

“A--” Dean opened and closed his mouth a few times. “A _thousand_?” 

“Not that long, really,” Balthazar said. “Daniel and Adina have been together since the dawn of time.”

Dean leaned against the kitchen counter. Intellectually, he knew Celestials lived a long time. As a human who would be lucky to see old age, he could not conceive of a thousand years, let alone from the dawn of time. A year was a long time for Dean. A year had to pass in a blink of an eye for Castiel. Dean's fingernails scratched against the wooden countertop as he thought about it.

Dean knew Castiel for a year.

“Whatever,” Meg said. “How do I get you to leave?”

“Open the portal. Send Dean and uh”-- Balthazar glanced around the room, searching for the forgotten Benny-- “his friend into Purgatory. They were planning on pulling Cassie out of there, anyway.”

“What? You’re not gonna help?” Dean asked.

“Of course I am!” Balthazar clutched his chest in mock offence. “I’m putting my blood into this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Blood.” Meg slammed her newly emptied bottle against the counter. “The final ingredient of the spell is Celestial blood.”

Balthazar slapped his arm. “Fresh from the tap.” 

“And there's an eclipse tomorrow.”

“I know. How convenient.” 

“Fine. I’ll help. Then you can leave me to drink in peace.”

“Gladly,”

“Good. Now get the fuck out of my cabin.”

“Also, for the record, Cassie totally holds a grudge. Trust me, I'd know.” Balthazar vanished, his wings not making a sound.

Meg took a deep breath before rolling her head toward Dean. “You know where the room is.” 

After grabbing another bottle, she walked to her kitchen table, stopping short when she noticed Benny. He offered her a polite wave. She shrugged, sat down, and let her head thump against the table. 

⁂

Trying to sleep in the cabin’s room was impossible. Trying to sleep at all was impossible. The bright moon and countless stars lit Dean’s way as he walked along the beach shore. The exercise did little to tire him out. He returned to the cabin, his mind just as cluttered as before.

He did not have time to dwell. When he approached the deck he saw Meg leaning against the railing. In order to enter the cabin, Dean needed to walk by her. Meg never noticed him. Dean put his hand on the doorknob but did not open it. He turned around. 

Dean could have ignored Meg. He could have walked through the door and went to bed without having to suffer another sarcastic comment. Dean did not like Meg. Meg did not like Dean. However, they needed to work together in order to help Castiel. Neither of them would admit it, but Castiel was the one thing they agreed on. 

“What? No eye roll? No murderous looks?” Dean asked. 

Dean joined Meg at the railing, standing as far from her as possible. Meg heaved a sigh, slightly exaggerated, and straightened her slouch enough for Dean to see the corner of her eye. 

“Do you have some kind of plan?” Meg gripped the railing, her knuckles turning white. “Say you go through that portal, manage to fight your way through all those monsters, and, through some kind of luck, find Clarence alive. How will you get him to come back?”

“What are you talking about? You’re the one holding the portal open.”

“No, you dummy, that’s not--” Meg made a noise of frustration. “Why do you think I was so pissed at him? Huh? Did you know he made sure I wouldn’t be able to open the portal again? No Celestial blood, no portal. Despite that he made me promise to get you-- and that kid-- outta there but not--”

Meg clutched her head and yanked at her hair. She advanced on Dean, crowding him up against the railing. Staring at him with bloodshot eyes, Meg said nothing. Dean instinctively went for his sword but he did not draw it. He raised his chin and did not break eye contact. After a few silent moments passed with no change, Meg backed away. 

“You must’ve figured it out by now,” Meg said, her hair hanging over her face. “Clarence-- Castiel-- never planned to leave Purgatory. He went to complete one last self-sacrificial mission then--” Meg cocked her head to the side, her eyes as black as night. “He planned to die there.”

Dean’s blood rushed in his ears, the pulsating noise taking over his senses. If he said something or made some kind of noise, he did not know. All he could do was stare. 

“And I sent him there, knowing that. I thought I made my peace but--” Meg closed in on Dean. This time, he did not look at her. “You better bring him back.”

Boards creaking underfoot, Meg strode into the cabin. She slammed the door behind her. Dean did not flinch. 


	30. Slay the Monster of the Sea

Purgatory’s river did not flow. It did not babble like a brook. It did not wet the dry dirt on the banks into mud. Castiel followed the river. A slight slope downward, one barely perceptible to the untrained eye, led him to the edge of Purgatory. 

The Purgatory dimension, created by God as a holding pen for the Creatures of the Night, was an island suspended in the middle of a vast grey sea. The holding pen was not, however, for the Creatures on the land. It was for those in the water. 

God alone knew the true nature of the Leviathan. They were His first creations and his greatest shame. Only the All-Father’s highest ranking Celestials-- the Arch, all of whom disappeared along with Him-- knew of the Leviathan. Only two remaining Celestials carried on the knowledge: God’s former scribe and self-proclaimed successor, the Metatron, and Castiel. 

Castiel was never intended to learn anything. After the fire at Lawrence, Castiel dug deep to find the truth. He learned about the Leviathan, the Metatron, and the worst thing of all. 

God-- the beloved All-Father-- had left them all.

The Metatron did not speak for God. He had not even spoken to God in an untold amount of years. The Celestial Host followed the Metatron because they thought he enacted the All-Father’s will. 

He did not. 

The Metatron wrote his own story. He wrote himself as the hero, the hero who destroyed the humans to gain the attention of God, and the hero who would bring his father back. 

He titled his story, _The Long War._

Castiel could not take the chance that the Metatron would release the Leviathan. The humans would not survive their scourge. The Purgatory inhabitants heard the Metatron’s call. It was only a matter of time before the Leviathan answered. Castiel knew how to stop them.

Cut off the head and the body will flounder.

At the island's edge, the river split in two, spilling into an unmoving grey pool that stretched further than the eye could see. Castiel lowered himself to his knees and leaned over the water. He could not see his reflection. He dipped his hands into the pool, cupping the water in between his palms and brought it to his face. The water dripped down his face and wet his beard.

The unmoving pool rippled.

⁂

“Where’s the Angel?”

Dean slammed the werewolf against the tree. Benny stood close by, his axe upon his shoulder, his face betraying little of his internal thoughts as he kept an eye on their surroundings. The werewolf coughed, exasperating the pain of his broken ribs, and glared at Dean with defiant, golden eyes. 

“Let’s try this again.” Dean pressed the point of his sword against the werewolf’s throat, pressing hard enough to draw blood. “Where’s the Angel?”

The werewolf coughed.

“C’mon, brother,” Benny said. “He doesn’t know anythin’.”

“Last chance.” Dean leaned in, his sword drawing a line against the werewolf’s skin. “Where. Is. The Angel.”

“You might wanna back off a little there, Dean,” Benny said. “He can’t talk if he’s dead.”

Dean glanced at Benny, intending to send him a scowl. When Dean saw the worry bleeding through Benny’s casual exterior, he softened. Dean loosened his hold on the werewolf and pulled back his sword. He stayed close, however, so the werewolf would not try to run.

A hacking cough wracked the werewolf. He spat blood at Dean’s feet, then looked up with a smile. Blood dripped from his teeth. 

“The Angel’s dead.” The werewolf eyed Dean’s shaking sword. “Or he will be. Good riddance.

“Where is he?” Dean whispered the question.

“You’re human aren’t you? Why would you care?” The werewolf narrowed his eyes and took stock of Dean’s wild eyes and shaking voice. His mouth formed an o-shape. “Well, isn’t that adorable. Fine. I’m dead anyway, so I’ll tell you. Find the river. Follow it until you reach the end. You’ll find your Angel there.”

The werewolf’s head rolled across the ground the second he finished his sentence. Dean wiped his sword and headed further into the trees. Benny chased after Dean’s retreating form. When he caught up, he grabbed Dean’s shoulder and spun him around. Benny refused to release Dean until he met his gaze.

“What?” Dean asked.

“Gettin’ a little rough back there,” Benny said.

“So what? Dude was a dick.”

“Dean.” Benny took Dean by both shoulders. “Don’t let this place turn you into a monster.”

Dean’s first instinct was to shake Benny off and continue his frantic search of Purgatory, leaving a wide path of destruction in his wake. He did not because he knew Beny told the truth. The second the portal opened, Dean ran through it and had not stopped since. He was so close to finding Castiel and, the closer he got, the more Dean felt like he was running out of time. 

Dean would not let Castiel die here.

“I know, I know,” Dean said. “I’m just worried.”

“I know you are.” Benny dropped his arms to his side. “Now, I may not be as close to the guy, but I’m pretty sure your Cas wouldn’t want you to save him if it meant doing it the bloody way.” 

“We’re at war. I’m covered in blood.”

“There’s a difference between doin’ it outta need and enjoyin’ it.”

“And you can tell which is which?”

“Yeah. Call it experience.” Benny lifted the corners of his mouth in an approximation of a smile, revealing his fangs. “It takes a long time to come back from bein’ a monster.”

Dean took a deep, stabilizing breath. He nodded to Benny, the message understood, and turned to the rest of Purgatory. It was time to find the river. It was time to find Castiel. It was time to bring him home.

⁂

The pool rippled again. Counting the seconds between each occurrence, Castiel knew his time grew short. The intervals started at an hour, then half an hour, then fifteen minutes. Another rippled pulsed across the pool once Castiel reached ten minutes. Castiel waited at the end of Purgatory and began his count again. 

The Leviathan were converging. Every ripple, every pulse, heralded the arrival of another part of the original Creature. The pieces came from all parts of Purgatory, from land and water, to return to where they all began. 

Castiel allowed it-- needed it-- to happen. A dark shadow formed under the water, increasing in size with every ripple. Once all the Leviathan returned, they would become a single entity, the first Creature of the Night. Then, Castiel could cut off the head. 

He learned most of this information from his time in Heaven, and the remaining blank spots were filled during his conversation with Lenore. They both knew survival was unlikely. That fact did not bother Castiel. 

Seven minutes. 

At least, it did not bother him until Sam’s kidnapping accelerated his plan. It did not bother him until Meg screamed about his stupidity with worry in her eyes. It did not bother him until Dean became his friend and offered him a home. It did not bother him until it became too late to change his mind.

Five minutes. 

“Cas!”

Castiel stood. He could not have heard that. That was not possible. No Creature would call him by that name. 

“Cas?”

Castiel turned around. He blinked. He blinked again. He rubbed at his eyes and wondered if his exhaustion had begun to manifest in psychosis. 

“Dean.” Castiel spoke the name aloud to process it and to figure out if the person before him was real.

Dean laughed, his smile bright despite the blood and dirt on his face. He opened his arms as he closed in on Castiel. Castiel did not move from the moment he saw Dean to the moment Dean wrapped his arms around him in a warm, grateful hug. 

When Dean touched him, Castiel knew Dean was real. Dean was solid, his grip tight around Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel clenched his hands into fists to keep from returning the hug because, if Dean was in Purgatory, it meant he was not safe. Dean was in danger and Castiel needed him to leave. Castiel needed Dean to leave so he could be safe and alive and happy in the Realm.

“Damn, it’s good to see you.” Dean let go, his hand stroking Castiel’s beard as he stepped back. “Nice peach fuzz.”

“Thank you.” Castiel touched his cheek, chasing the ghost of Dean’s touch. 

Dean huffed out an amused sound, his smile turning bashful as Castiel studied him. Castiel always felt that Dean had an aesthetically pleasing face-- with its sharp angles and symmetry-- but, looking at him now, Castiel felt something different, something he had not felt in a long time. Leaving behind any semblance of personal space, Castiel raised a hand to Dean’s face and peered into his eyes. Castiel ran his fingers over Dean’s cheek, categorizing new freckles and deeper lines. Even in the washed-out world of Purgatory, Castiel could see them and see the green of his eyes.

“You look…” Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Different. Older.”

Dean’s skin warmed under Castiel’s fingers. “Uh, yeah, It’s been--”

The pool rippled. Castiel hurried back to the edge, watching the dark shadow swirl into a sphere, just under the water’s surface. He lost count. He did not know how much time he had left. Castiel glanced behind him, seeing Benny approach and stand beside Dean. Both of them shot Castiel urgent looks.

“Well,” Benny said, “that ain’t good.”

“It’s not.” Castiel stared out over the water. “You need to leave. Now.”

“Not this time,” Dean said.

“Gotta see this one to the end, chief,” Benny said. 

“No. You don’t.” Castiel faced Dean and Benny. “The whole point of this was to give you a chance to win the War. You can’t do that if you’re here.”

“And the whole point of this”-- Dean gestured between himself and Benny-- “was to get you home.”

“You--” Castiel tilted his head back and cast his eyes to the sky. “You’re not supposed to be here, Dean. You’re supposed to be alive and safe and not teaming up with a vampire to enter Purgatory.” He heaved a sigh. “I made sure you couldn’t. How did you--”

“Wait.” Benny held up a finger to interrupt Dean’s reply. “You know I’m a vampire.”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “Why do you think I started frequenting Andrea’s Tavern?” 

“For my wonderful service and, you know, all those free drinks I gave you to stay on your good side if you ever figured out I was a Creature.”

“Oh. I thought that was normal.” Castiel shrugged. “You weren’t hurting anyone so I kept an eye on you. Later I learned you were Awakened.”

“Damn it all! I can’t believe I could’ve been chargin’ you this whole time! I gave you the expensive liquor.” 

“Thank you. Now take Dean and go.”

“Cas.” Dean dropped his pack to his feet. “Buddy. I need you.”

“I need you safe,” Castiel said.

The pool rippled. No one noticed. 

“Let me bottom line it for you: I’m not leaving here without you.” Dean reached into the pack and grabbed the Angel’s sword. The jewels glittered as Dean held it out. “Understand?”

Castiel stared at the sword in Dean’s hand. Castiel never thought he would see it again; Castiel never thought he would see Dean again. 

Dean had changed. He stood tall, his broad shoulders thrown back with the authority of a warrior. When he moved, his muscles, defined and strengthened by years of training, were evident even under his leather armour. The stubble dusted across his cheeks defined his sharp cheekbones. 

Castiel blinked. He did not usually notice that sort of thing.

Dean’s eyes, however, were as bright as Castiel remembered. 

“I’m armed this time,” Dean said, “and I promised I’d give it back.”

“Hey, chief,” Benny called from the water’s edge, “you’re really gonna need your sword.”

The pool rippled. There was no more time between each occurrence. The pool pulsated like a heartbeat. The dark spot writhed, sending grey waters onto the shore and over Castiel’s broken boots. The water receded and the spot became a black mass of fleshy limbs and wet scales. 

The mass lengthened and stretched. Sickening cracks sounded-- pop, pop, pop, pop, pop-- as five appendages emerged from the mass's centre. A loud boom rang out across all of Purgatory, and the last of the water became a tidal wave, slamming onto the land. It soaked Castiel’s hair and what was left of his armour.

When the wave cleared, all that remained of the pool was a hollow filled with the dry, crumbling dirt of Purgatory. Within it stood a man. The man appeared human. He wore simple, high quality clothing and carried no weapons. He watched the group on the shore, his smile wide and dangerous. 

Dean still held the sword, water dripping off the sheath. Castiel took it. When he unsheathed his sword, it gleamed brilliantly enough to be seen from the other end of Purgatory. 

“Hey! Dick!” Dean shouted to the unmoving figure in the dry pool. “What do you want?”

Without moving, without running, without any effort at all, the figure appeared behind the group. “Yes. Dick. Call this form that.”

Steel rang out as Dean whipped around with the rest of the group, his sword at the ready. He shuffled closer to Castiel and glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“This guy for real?” Dean asked.

“The Angel." Dick grinned, his maw full of sharp teeth. "You’ve been busy: chopping off our heads, dismembering our pieces. Excellent work! We are pleased to meet you.”

“We?” Benny shook the water out of his ears and raised his axe. “Who’s we?”

“We are the Leviathan.” Dick ran his hands down his chest. “This form shall be called Dick.”

“He’s really going with that,” Dean muttered to Castiel, who shot him a reproachful glare. Dean appeared chastened until Castiel looked away. Dean grinned.

“We have been called.” Dick did not acknowledge Benny or Dean, acting as if he did not see them at all. He did not find them worthy. He stared, unblinking, at Castiel. “You wish to stop us.”

“I will stop you,” Castiel said.

“You will?” Dick stepped forward, his teeth shining. “You are Celestial, the All-Father’s second choice. We are Leviathan. We are the first.”

“This is not worth your time.” Castiel dug his heels into the crumbling dirt, dry despite the water. “The All-Father isn’t calling you.”

“We know. The Metatron is just a single being. We will best him.” Dick was a step away from Castiel. He paid no mind to the weapons held by Dean and Benny on either side of him. “We believe this form will sit comfortably upon the Throne of God.”

There was no warning, no call, no scream, before Dick cast out his arms. He hit Dean and Benny in the centre of their chests, hurling them into the empty pool. They sunk into the brittle dirt, too winded to keep from being buried. Dick’s eyes never left Castiel’s face.

“Those two are nothing. Microbes. You, however, are fascinating.” Dick’s smile did not change but it took on a more sinister gleam. “How would you like to take part in a new, exciting, business opportunity?” 

“Business opportunity?” Castiel could not hide his disbelief. “How would you have a concept of business?”

“We know many things. We watched. All parts of us learned, evolved, grew. That is why we chose this form. We needed to speak to you and gain your knowledge of the humans and Heaven. We admire your work ethic.”

“What do you want with the humans?”

“Even we must eat.”

Castiel brandished his sword and aimed for the back of Dick’s head. Dick did not flinch. He raised his arm, catching Castiel’s wrist. Dick twisted Castiel's arm until the bone was on the edge of breaking. Castiel groaned in pain, trying to resist the immovable form before him. He failed, opening his hand before he suffered too much damage. The Angel’s sword dimmed when it landed in the dirt. 

“We have upset you,” Dick said. “It was when we spoke of the humans. Why? They are nothing compared to the likes of you. To us.”

“You’re right,” Castiel said. “They’re vastly superior.”

Dick’s neck swayed back and forth, reminiscent of a snake. “We do not comprehend.” 

“I will not help you.”

“Why?” Dick waved his free hand. Behind them, the dirt slid off of Dean and Benny. They gasped for breath. “We can assist you.” Dick let Castiel’s arm go, then brought both his hands forward, his palms cupped together in front of his chest. His hands stretched until they became an imitation of a bird’s wing. The feathers were made from scales. “We can fix you.”

No words known across the Realm could describe the emotion dwelling in Castiel’s breast as he looked down at the Leviathan’s offering, his lips pressed into a thin line. “You spent all that time watching and learning. Yet, after all that time, you know nothing about me.”

“You are the Angel.”

“No.” Castiel raised his head and peered into Purgatory’s hungry maw, the Leviathan. He squared his stance and readied for battle. “My name is Castiel.”

Power gathered in Castiel’s palms. They glowed with blue-white light. Castiel heard Dean shout his name. Castiel heard boots scuffing on the dry dirt. Castiel heard Dick’s inquisitive noise when he sensed Castiel’s power.

That single second-- that one tiny moment when the Leviathan paused to make a sound-- was all Castiel needed. He surged forward, slamming his palms onto either side of Dick’s human shaped head. Dick growled and snarled, a sound made from thousands upon thousands of voices, and thrashed in Castiel hold. 

It was too late for the Leviathan. Castiel found his opening. His power flowed from his core, lighting up his veins as it travelled from his body to the Levithan’s form. Dick’s jaw unhinged, his open mouth revealing rows upon rows of teeth. Light poured out from within.

When Castiel opened his eyes, his power made them glow a blinding blue. “Awaken.”

Dick gasped and choked on the light. His form rippled, expanding with each pulse. Black snakes slithered across his body, trying to find a way to escape the light. They could not. The Leviathan were trapped.

“Mother,” the Leviathan cried out, all their voices joined as one. 

It was the last word the Leviathan spoke. Dick’s form bust, stretched beyond his capacity by Castiel’s power. Thick, black ooze rained down on Purgatory. The pool filled with it.

His task complete, Castiel dropped to the dirt. He wiped the ooze out of his eyes and stared straight ahead. Purgatory looked exactly the same. 

“What the shit, Cas?” Dean sat beside Castiel, black tendrils clinging to his hair. “That was fucking stupid!”

“Well, he’s alive,” Benny said. 

“I know.” Castiel raised his hands, his palms free of power. “I am very surprised.”

“Whoa, buddy.” Dean pressed a hand against Castiel’s back to keep him from falling into the black pool. “You’re not done yet.”

“I suppose not. I--” Castiel leaned forward, putting his head between his knees to alleviate his dizziness. 

“You alright, chief?” Benny surveyed the area, reaching down when he found Castiel’s sword. He held it at arm’s length as he returned to the group.

“I--” Castiel swallowed. “I am very tired.”

“I bet. That light show must've taken off at least a couple centuries,” Dean said.

“Likely more,” Castiel said.

Dean helped Castiel to his feet. “Well, I came here to get you out and that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Benny presented Castiel with the sword. “You’re gonna need this.”

When Castiel wrapped his hand around his sword’s hilt, it flared. If one did not know the inanimate nature of swords, one may call its brightness joy.


	31. His Servants the Prophets

“Help! You have to help me!”

The guard turned to her companion. “What are we gonna do?”

“I called the Captain,” the other guard said. “Can’t open the gate without his say so.”

A boy, no older than sixteen, yanked on the bars of the Capital’s gate. Slight and small, his desperate actions had no effect. 

“Please. Please. He has my mother-- he has her!” The boy sank to the ground, tears in his eyes.

“He’s just a boy,” the first guard said.

“I know,” her companion replied, “but anyone could be a monster.”

The boy gasped and scrambled to his feet. “You don’t understand! I must speak to--” The boy took a breath and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. When he spoke again, it was with divine authority. “I must speak to the Winchesters. If I don’t, the Metatron will kill my mother.”

⁂

Aaron threw his pen on top of a thick pile of papers and leaned back in his chair, his head tilted towards Captain's office’s ceiling. “How does Dean do all this on his own?”

“I don’t know.” Pamela gestured to the desk, the wood completely hidden by documents. “We’ve been doing this all day and I swear we didn’t make a dent. It grew!”

“That’s because it did. They dropped half of it off an hour ago,” Sam said, seated beside Pamela. “And Dean’s a workaholic who doesn’t sleep.”

“Must run in the family,” Aaron said, grinning at Sam from across the table.

“Speaking of no sleep,” Pamela said, “I hear baby brother Winchester’s got himself a girl.”

“Really?” Aaron rested his elbows on the desk and put his chin in his palms. “Do tell!”

“Hold on.” Sam glared at Pamela. “How did you know? You got back like a day ago.”

“I have my ways.” Pamela looked Sam up and down, her tongue caught between her teeth. She made an appreciative sound. “Lots of disappointed ladies out there. And more than a few men.”

“Man, I gotta know who was brave enough to date _you_ ,” Aaron said. “I mean, dating Dean’s brother?”

“What?” Sam asked.

“It’s why most of the ladies haven’t tried.” Pamela shrugged. “The Winchesters are kind of a package deal.”

“Dean can be fucking terrifying when he wants to be,” Aaron said. “You should hear the talk-- or threat-- he gives to anyone sniffing around you.”

“Wait. _That’s_ why I couldn’t get a date?” Sam slapped the table. “Oh, when I see Dean I’m gonna--”

Sam hunched over in his chair and stared at his lap. Pamela and Aaron exchanged worried glances. A sombre atmosphere descended upon the Captain’s office. All three had the same thought. Nobody knew when they would next see Dean.

“He’ll come back,” Pamela said, laying a hand on Sam’s arm.

“Yeah,” Aaron said, “he’s too damn stubborn not to finish his mission.”

Sam took a deep breath. “He really has to.”

Sam did not doubt Dean would return. He could not conceive of another outcome. If Dean returned with no Castiel, however, Sam did not know how much of his brother would come back.

“What was Dean’s mission anyway?” Pamela asked. “No one told me.”

“Wouldn’t tell me,” Aaron said. “'Must've asked a thousand times.”

Their eyes drifted towards Sam but he ignored the unspoken question. Only the Captain, the king, and Sam knew the true purpose of Dean’s mission. Officially, Sam did not know anything. That did not stop people from asking.

A frantic pounding at the door spared Sam from having to come up with a response. Aaron answered the door. A runner gasped for breath in the doorway, his eyes wide and frantic as he searched the room.

“The Captain,” the runner gasped, “where is he?”

“In a meeting with the king,” Aaron said. “You alright, man? Need some water?”

“No. I need”-- his eyes settled on Sam-- “Winchester.”

⁂

“I’m not leaving until you help me.” The boy slumped against the gate. “I can’t. He won’t let me.” 

The guards on duty held back the growing crowd. Sam, with Pamela and Aaron by his side, was ushered through by the head guard. She filled the group in on the situation, though there was little to tell. The boy showed up that morning, screaming for help, and refused to leave until he spoke to the Winchesters.

“And well, we figured one Winchester was better than none,” she concluded.

“Good call,” Aaron said. “Thanks for your hard work.”

“Of course, Sir Bass,” she said before she returned to the crowd.

“I am _never_ going to get used to that ‘Sir’ business,” Aaron said.

“You’re all respectable these days,” Pamela said.

“I know! Who saw that coming?” 

“I’ll check on the gate controls. I should thank this kid for the break from paperwork.” Pamela winked before she left.

Sam reached the gate. All he could see through the bars was the boy’s profile, his cheeks still filled with a child’s roundness. Sam knelt on the hard, dusty path, and leaned against the bars. He slid down as far as he could to match the boy’s height. 

“Hey there,” Sam said, his voice low and soft, “what’s your name?”

The boy squawked, much like a frightful bird. “Kevin. Kevin Tran.”

“Well, Kevin Tran,” Sam said. “Why have you been shouting my name all day?”

Kevin scrambled to his knees. He gripped the gate with both hands and pressed his face against the bars. The whites of his eyes shone.

“You. You’re Sam. Sam Winchester.” Kevin burst into a fit of high-pitched giggles. “You’re real.”

“Real?”

“Wait. If you’re here, then Dean should be too.”

“He’s not here.”

“No. He is. He came back from Pur--” Kevin grabbed his hair, disturbing the already frazzled mop. “That hasn’t happened yet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sam.” Aaron’s voice made Kevin fall back and Sam jump to his feet. “What do you think?”

“He’s just a kid.”

“Yeah.” Aaron gestured to the growing crowd behind him. “The Captain’s not available. We gotta make a call soon.”

“Well, you’re the second in command.”

“I know! But--” Aaron grimaced. “That’s only because Dean’s not here and Pamela wasn’t around at the time.”

“No, that’s not why.”

“It’s not?”

“When Bobby-- er, The Captain-- asked Dean who he wanted to take over, he said your name right away.”

“What? Really? I--”

Kevin slammed his hands against the bars, returning Sam’s attention to him. Standing, he tipped his head back to stare Sam in the eyes. 

“I can help you,” Kevin said. “If you help me.”

“Is that so?” Aaron stepped out from behind Sam and leaned into the gate. “How’re you gonna do that?”

Kevin did not look away from Sam. “The Metatron. I know about the Metatron.”

“What kind of name is _that_?” Aaron rolled his eyes.

Sam did not hear anything. He knew Kevin was not lying-- he did not think the boy was capable of faking such terror-- and the name made him pause. In a few dusty tomes, during his research about the Creatures, Sam had come across the name. Spelled differently each time in a few scattered footnotes, Sam did not take much note. Yet Kevin, this child who knew more than he should, said the name like it warranted Sam’s attention. Perhaps it did. 

A forgotten memory-- one buried alongside all the times Sam had to bear witness to Dean's drunken rants-- scratched at the back of Sam's mind. Dean had warned him about someone named Metatron once. Sam had dismissed it as a manifestation of Dean's grief. 

“You said Dean’s name before,” Sam said.

Kevin nodded, his forehead smacking against the metal. “Yes, yes. I see him sometimes. You too. They used to be just dreams but now it’s all the time.”

“What? Why?”

“The Metatron. He wants to write your story. I’m supposed to tell it. I don’t want to. But, when I refused he--” Kevin pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, suppressing a sob. “He took my mom.”

“You’re buying this?” Aaron asked.

“But you were surprised Dean wasn’t here.” Sam rested his chin on his hand. “What were you going to say?”

“I can’t. If I tell you what happens, the Metatron gets angry. But I can tell you Dean made it.” Kevin indicated that Sam should lean down. When Sam complied, Kevin turned his body away from Aaron, making sure only Sam heard him whisper, “He found Castiel.”

As soon as he said the words, Kevin dropped to his knees. He clutched at his head crying out in pain. 

Sam straightened and addressed Aaron. “Let him in.”

⁂

One good meal and a soft bed later, Kevin slept soundly. Sam closed the door to one of the many guest rooms in the Angel’s wing and sighed. While Sam wanted to interrogate Kevin, it was clear he was exhausted and needed the rest. Sam could wait until morning. Maybe.

Sam continued down the hallway to his room. He needed to sleep as well but, after such an intense day, he doubted it would come easy. When he reached the door, the most beautiful sight greeted him. 

“Hey, Sam,” Jessica said, waving a bottle of wine. “I heard you had a bad day.”

“No day is bad when I get to see you,” Sam said.

Sam led Jessica further down the hall to one of the sitting rooms-- neither were ready for the bedroom. Jessica claimed two glasses from the cabinet at the back of the room while Sam tried to slap the dust out of the couch. Like Castiel, Sam and Dean had refused servants. They hardly used the rooms anyway.

Jessia handed Sam a full glass, keeping one for herself. They sat side by side on the couch. Sam did not know what to say but, thankfully, Jessica was content to sit in silence. She understood Sam’s need for quiet company. 

One glass of wine later, Sam lay lengthwise on the couch, his head resting in Jessica’s lap. His legs hung over the edge of the couch and the back of his knees pressed uncomfortably against the armrest but it was worth it to feel Jessica’s fingers gently brushing through his hair.

“You’re worried about him,” Jessica said.

“Who?” Sam asked.

“Your brother. More than usual, I mean”

“I got some news about him today.”

“Good news?”

“Not bad news.”

“I thought you’d be happier about that.”

“Me too.” Sam sighed. “I don’t know if I can trust it.”

“ _So_ cynical.” Jessica gave Sam’s nose a teasing tap. “You’ve been so tense these last couple of months. ‘Not bad news’ is pretty good these days. Take a breath.”

Jessica smiled when Sam did what she suggested. He liked it when she smiled. He liked a lot of things about Jessica. He liked the fact that her favourite colour was yellow because it reminded her of the cheerful flowers in her village elder’s garden before it was destroyed in the raid. He liked that her nose crinkled when she laughed. He liked how she would draw pictures in the soot when she cleaned the fireplaces and he liked the colourful art she made when he gifted her with proper supplies. He liked her calloused hands, her knuckles red and raw when she had a long day, especially when he could hold them. He liked Jessica-- all of her-- but it did not feel like a strong enough word.

“Hey, Jess?”

“Yeah, Sam?”

“I know it hasn’t been that long and everything is so new but--” Sam closed his eyes. He took a breath. “I’ll always go as slow as you want and wait as long as you need. I don’t expect you to say it back but--”

“What?” Jessica asked, her voice teasing. “You got me in suspense here.”

“I love you.”

Jessica’s hand stilled. For a moment Sam thought he messed up, that he said the words too soon, but then Jessica grabbed at his shoulders and pulled at him until he sat up. Jessica draped her arms over his shoulders and brought him close. She kissed Sam, her touch sweet and soft. When she backed away, the shine in her eyes, full of hope and unspoken words, made Sam tremble.

Sam held Jessica in his arms. He took a breath. At that moment, with the woman he loved close by, he almost believed he would be well.

⁂

Black ooze dotted the ground and hung off the tree branches, weighing them down until they hunched over like penitent children. Dean kept his arm at the ready-- he would not let Castiel stumble-- as he followed Benny out of Purgatory. No Creatures interrupted their journey. Purgatory held its breath as it waited for the Metatron’s word, for the consequences of the Leviathan's defeat. 

Dean had a lot he needed to say. He needed to tell Castiel about how much time had passed, about how the people needed the Angel, and about the Long War. He had to accept that Benny was staying behind to find Andrea. Dean wanted to help him but he also wanted to get Castiel somewhere safe. Dean needed to say goodbye.

There was so much Dean needed to say that he said nothing at all.

The journey across Purgatory was a lot faster without any attacks along the way. They reached the cliff, the portal at the top shimmering in the stagnant air. When Dean stopped at the cliff’s base, Castiel slumped against Dean’s side and closed his eyes. 

“Hey, chief,” Benny said. “Got a question.”

Castiel made a sound. It could have been acknowledgement. Benny took it as such.

“You ever run into a vampire-- she turned around forty-- with brown hair, green eyes? Name’s Andrea.”

“I…” Castiel rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I don’t ask for names.”

“Fair enough. Worth a try.” Benny glanced up to the portal, then back down the path they came. He stroked his chin and stepped closer to Castiel. “So, you can do it. You can really Awaken them.”

“Yes.” 

“Good to know. You two best be on your way. Your portal’s waiting.”

Before Benny could turn away, Dean called out, “Benny. You-- I--”

‘What?” Benny grinned but refused to meet Dean’s eyes. “You gonna get all sappy on me? C’mon, brother.”

“I mean, you know, for the help and the--” Dean could not speak over the lump in his throat.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” 

Benny clasped Dean’s hand and wrapped his other arm around Dean’s shoulders. Dean did the same and clapped Benny on the back. When they released, they nodded to each other and let their actions speak the words they could not find.

“See you on the other side, brother.” Benny raised his axe and tipped his chin to Castiel. 

Castiel did not see Benny leave. Dean grabbed Castiel by the waist to keep him upright. At a slow, shuffling pace, Dean led Castiel up the cliff. Castiel’s broken boots dragged across the dirt, sending rocks and debris rolling down the path. Sweat beaded on his brow and every step was accompanied by a laboured breath.

“Wow, Cas. You really went overboard back there,” Dean said.

Castiel did not speak. He did, however, manage a glare.

“Seriously, dude, you gotta take better care of yourself.”

“I didn’t plan--”

“Yeah, I know what you didn’t plan.” They reached the top of the cliff. Dean stopped to allow Castiel to catch his breath. He stared at the ground, his hands shaking. “Why didn’t you tell me, man? Did you think no one would care? You make me promise to live then--”

“Dean, I--”

“I know, okay! Meg told me.” Dean clenched his jaw. “You didn’t plan to survive that fight, did you?” Castiel stiffened. It was a fraction of a second but Dean noticed it. “Damn it, Cas.”

“I had to keep you all safe.” 

“Keep us safe? You don’t know. We’ve been fighting stronger and stronger monsters every damn day and you wouldn’t know about it because you’ve been stuck over here for the last five fucking years!”

Castiel turned towards Dean, his eyes searching his face. Dean did not look up. The portal, waiting a few feet away, crackled. They were too preoccupied to notice.

“Five years?” Castiel asked.

“Cas I-- I need you, okay? You can’t throw your life away like that. You just can’t.”

Dean threw his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, his fingers digging into what was left of his armour. This time Castiel returned the hug, his hands coming to rest on Dean’s back. Dean shuddered, running one hand through Castiel’s hair. He gave Castiel one final, tight squeeze before stepping back.

Castiel swayed in place. He leaned over with a pained gasp, crossing his arm across his body. Dean returned to his side, helping him toward the portal. 

“Okay,” Dean said, “let’s go home.”

They went through the portal as one. Dean kept hold of Castiel as they were snapped through dimensions. Their limbs stretched and pulled as they broke on through to the other side. 

Dean landed on the hard floor of the sea cave, his hip taking the brunt of the impact. He ignored the pain because he made it. Dean was back in Realm and he had Castiel beside him. With his arms still wrapped around Castiel, Dean scrambled into a seated position. He looked at Castiel then-- looked at his beard, the black ooze marking his skin, and his alert blue eyes-- and brought him in for another hug. Dean laughed, a happy sound of utter relief.

At that moment, holding Castiel close while heedless of Meg and Balthazar’s stares, Dean almost believed he would be well. 


	32. Sunrise

Sam did not know what to do with Kevin. He did know, however, that what he wanted to do-- shake Kevin until he spilled every last piece of pertinent information-- was not the correct action. Usually, when Sam reached an impasse like this, he would talk it over with Dean. Sometimes, Dean even listened. 

But Sam could not talk to Dean. 

Jessica would listen but she was busy with work and Sam did not want to burden her. Sam considered bringing Kevin to the Captain, to Frank, or to the king. He would have to sooner or later but Sam wanted to figure out if Kevin’s knowledge was reliable first.

Therefore, it was completely logical for Sam to drag Kevin into Charlie’s shop first thing in the morning.

Charlie kept her shop well-organized, with her tools hanging on the wall over her workbench on one side of the room and her scrap metal, along with other materials, on the other. Paintings of suns, rainbows and flowers covered the stone walls. Sam remembered how Dean rolled his eyes when Charlie insisted the Winchesters help brighten up her shop. Sam remembered how he rolled his own eyes when Dean suggested a rainbow five seconds later.

Hearing the new arrivals' footsteps, Charlie stood from her cold forge at the back wall. “Sam!” she greeted, her wide smile never wavering when she noticed Kevin. “Who’s the new kid?”

Kevin remained in the doorway, eyeing Charlie’s approach suspiciously. “You first.”

“I’m Charlie.” She turned to Sam. “Why are you here?”

“I’m Kevin.” He also turned to Sam. “How is this supposed to help my mom?”

Sam hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know yet.” Charlie and Kevin gave Sam the same incredulous stare. Sam continued, “I _should_ hand Kevin here over to the king but I don’t wanna do that. He claims he has information for me but I have to help him. I’m not the commander but I’m--”

He continued to speak, pacing around the shop as he worked his way through his thoughts. Charlie shook her head, figuring out the answer to her question, and offered Kevin a shrug.

“So, wanna play with fire and sharp things?” Charlie asked. “Sam’s on a roll. It’ll be a while.”

“Uh, sure,” Kevin said, his eyes wide as he watched Sam pace around the shop, “sounds fun.”

Around the time Charlie finished showing Kevin how to light the forge, Sam clapped his hands. They turned around in time to see Sam hurry out of the shop. Charlie shrugged and continued her lesson. 

Once Charlie reached the end of her explanation about the different types of steel, Sam returned. Her words became a garbled mess when she noticed who came with him.

“I told you, I’m not psy--” Pamela cut off when she saw Kevin. Her mouth dropped open. “Are you aware you're glowing?”

“I’m not!” Kevin patted his chest and checked the bottom of his boots. “Am I?”

Charlie touched Kevin’s shoulder and offered him a reassuring smile. Sam crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at Pamela. 

“Okay, fine. I can sometimes see auras.” Pamela put her hands on her hips. “It comes in handy sometimes. So what?”

“You can?” Charlie reached behind her head, releasing the pin holding her hair up. Her long red hair cascaded over her shoulders. “That’s... very interesting.”

Pamela chuckled. “Oh, Red. You sure know how to flatter a lady.”

“I know how to do a lot more than that.”

A gentle breeze could have knocked Kevin over. Thankfully, he was indoors. Once it was clear Charlie and Pamela were not going to stop staring at each other-- with Pamela smirking and Charlie blushing-- Sam cleared his throat. It was an action Sam perfected after spending his whole life with a brother like Dean. 

“The lore says this Metatron is a Celestial,” Sam said, once he regained everyone’s attention. “So, Pamela, does Kevin here feel like one?”

“You mean like Castiel?” Pamela stepped closer to Kevin, her chin in her hand. “Well, the glowing is similar but Castiel was--” A shadow passed over her face. “Still, this kid is human.”

“The Metatron called me a prophet,” Kevin said. 

“Does that mean anything to the rest of you?” Charlie asked. 

“It means I need to be here,” Kevin said, all traces of anxiety gone. “It is my birthright.”

Kevin stood up straight. His presence-- one beyond his young age-- commanded the attention of the others. The air in the room crackled like a storm was about to begin. When Kevin opened his eyes his pupils were not black, but gold.

⁂

The Realm was much more colourful than Castiel remembered. He had seen the sun glitter off the waves of the sea before but he did not recall it being so bright. Leaves were green, he knew, but he never appreciated all the different shades in a single leaf, let alone across all the different types of trees. Everything was saturated with life and light in the Realm. Castiel could not help but be overwhelmed by it. 

Stripped to his waist and kneeling on the sandy beach, Castiel wet a cloth in a small pool of water surrounded by rocks. He wiped his face and scrubbed his hair and chest, careful to avoid his wounds. Scratches covered his arms, the vampire bite on his neck stung, and the bruises on his back ached. 

Five years of dirt and grime made the water run black when he wrung out the cloth. He went back to his task, determined to wash away every last trace of Purgatory. By the time he threw the soiled cloth on the sand, his skin was pink and raw. 

Castiel stared into the pool, the clear waters showing his reflection. His beard was coarse and coiled. His hair stood from his head in long, wild strands, the ends jagged from being cut with a knife, and tiny flecks of grey showed near his temples. He ran a finger over the grey hair, marvelling at the new mark of mortality. 

He stared into the pool for a long, long time. No matter how long he spent there, the water did not ripple.

A slight wind, one imperceptible to most, had Castiel on his feet with his sword in hand in the blink of an eye. The point of Castiel’s sword was at Balthazar’s neck a half-second before he appeared. 

“Easy now, Cassie,” Balthazar said, raising his hands. “I come in peace.”

“Do you?” Castiel pressed the tip of his blade under Balthazar’s chin, forcing him to look up. 

“Yes! Do you think I’d turn traitor and save your life just to try something now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think.” 

Castiel lowered his sword but kept it at the ready. When Balthazar tried to move closer, Castiel cut him off.

“It’s been a couple of days and I wanted to check on you. You…” Balthazar paused, noticing Castiel’s wounds. “You’re kind of beat up, actually. Are you feeling well?”

The way Balthazar’s eyebrows knit together, along with the genuine concern in his voice, made Castiel sheathe his sword. Balthazar visibly relaxed but did not make any motion to move closer. Castiel turned his back to pick up the shirt he left by the pool. After he shrugged on his shirt, Catiel returned to Balthazar, who had a deep furrow in his brow. 

“Your scars,” Balthazar said. There was no doubt Balthazar spoke of the angry red scars that ran down Castiel's back, the only remnant of his wings. “Do they hurt?”

“Not physically.”

“Right.” Balthazar dropped his gaze. 

“You’ve checked on me. Was there anything else you need?”

“I--” 

“Because if there isn’t, I’d suggest you leave before Metatron tries to find you.”

“Cas--” Balthazar extended his arm, intending to touch Castiel’s shoulder, but backed off when Castiel flinched.

“I appreciate your assistance," Castiel said, "and if you’re in any kind of trouble I will help you. I mean that, but I’m unable to--” 

“Yeah. I get it.”

They stood in silence. Balthazar shuffled his feet, his boots digging deep grooves in the sand. Castiel watched the waves crash ashore behind Balthazar. The silence between them used to be easy. Now, they could not look each other in the eye.

“You do know that Dean kid is human, yes?” Balthazar asked.

“I’m aware,” Castiel said. 

“Then you know he’ll grow old far before you, right?”

“Is there a purpose to this line of questioning?”

“Nothing, just, uh”-- Balthazar crossed his arms and focused on Castiel’s face-- “he seems rather attached to you.”

Castiel squinted his eyes and tilted his head, unable to read Balthazar’s expression. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t.” Balthazar chuckled before he muttered, “Poor kid’s got his work cut out for him.”

“I still don’t understand.”

Balthazar grinned to himself. It became wider when he noticed Castiel’s unamused glare. 

“I missed you,” Balthazar said.

Immediately, Balthazar clasped a hand over his mouth. He stared at the sand and watched the water lap over the shore. Achingly slow, achingly careful, Castiel stepped towards Balthazar. Castiel raised his hand and-- so lightly it was hardly noticeable-- touched Balthazar’s shoulder. When Balthazar looked up, Castiel nodded. 

It was not forgiveness. Castiel and Balthazar both knew they could never be as they were before. However, Castiel understood what Bathazar’s actions meant. He turned his back on everything-- on Heaven itself-- to assist Castiel. 

“Balthazar, if you need anything,” Castiel said, “you know how to find me.”

“Yeah. And, you know, if you need any advice on Dean or whatever, you can find me.”

“Why would I need advice?”

Balthazar laughed. “You know, Cassie, I think you’re going to be just fine.”

⁂

Dean wondered if the compulsion to touch Castiel every time he walked into the room would ever subside. When Castiel entered Meg’s kitchen, his hair windswept and his blue eyes blazing, Dean struggled to not jump out of his seat and throw his arms around Castiel. No, Dean realized, if anything, the need became worse each time he saw Castiel. 

It was not a sexual feeling. It was a simple desire to be close. Dean wanted to run his hands across Castiel’s arms, move them up over his shoulders, and grasp his hair. Then, Dean would press his ear against Castiel’s chest and listen to his heartbeat. That way, Dean would know Castiel was alive. 

Despite recognizing all of this-- despite spending five years looking for Castiel in the beds of others, despite traversing halfway across the Realm to bring Castiel home-- Dean could not parse out why he felt that way. So, while he did stand from his seat at the table, he did not join Castiel at the kitchen counter.

One hand stroking his beard, Castiel leaned back and waited for Dean to speak. Castiel noticed how Dean watched him from the moment he entered the room. He thought Dean wanted to tell him something. Dean did, though it was nothing about the War or the next mission like Castiel expected, but something Dean could not articulate. 

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and, trying to make it seem he stood on purpose, pressed his back against the table. He rubbed his chin, unconsciously mirroring Castiel’s pose. 

“Was there something you wanted?” Castiel asked.

There was plenty Dean wanted, even if he did not realize it. Thus, he answered, “No,” though that did not feel correct. He rubbed his sweaty palms down his thighs as he searched for something else to say. “Are you planning to keep the beard?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel scratched his cheek. “Is it not good?”

“Don’t worry, buddy, you always look good.” Once Dean’s mind caught up to his mouth, Dean stared at Castiel with wide eyes. Castiel only titled his head. Dean stood up straight. “Uh, I mean, um, I can help you with the hair if you want. I do it for Sam all the time. Well, until he became allergic to scissors.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Is that possible?”

Dean could not keep the grin off his face. This time, he did not fight against the compulsion. He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Castiel’s shoulders. While Dean did not let his hands move any further, or press his ear against Castiel’s chest, he did bury his nose in Castiel’s hair. Dean breathed deeply, smelling the ocean.

“I missed you,” Dean said. 

Castiel’s answer was to slide his arms around Dean’s waist and pull him close.

⁂

In the early hours, a time too dark to call morning but too light to be night, Dean awoke on his bedroll, which he had laid out on the cabin's bedroom floor. Dean had left the actual bed for Castiel but it was empty. It took a moment for Dean to notice, as he was checking his hands to make sure they were not burnt by the fire in his dreams. 

Once he noticed Castiel was not asleep, and that the sheets had not been moved at all, Dean was up and dressed as quickly as the time his army camp was raided by ghouls. Perhaps faster. This time, he did not worry about weapons or armour.

Dean’s footsteps sounded loud in the empty cabin. He did not care about Meg’s absence. She made a point of avoiding Dean since his return and that suited him fine. He was, of course, concerned about Castiel. The feeling was similar-- but not quite the same-- to the constant worry Dean felt for Sam’s wellbeing. 

He found Castiel just outside the cabin, sitting at the shoreline with his sword strapped to his hip. He had not removed it since Purgatory. Meg sat beside him, sans alcohol, for once. They said nothing, staring at the large, waning moon. 

Dean’s worry assuaged, he was about to return to the cabin when Meg asked, in a far more gentle tone than Dean expected, “Are you doing alright now?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said. “I feel like I’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

Meg playfully punched Castiel’s arm. “It’s safe here. I’d know if there were Creatures around.”

“Logically, I know that.” Castiel’s hand went to his sword. “Unfortunately that does not temper my autonomic response.” 

“Well, you did spend five years in a warzone.”

“That does not excuse me from attacking you.”

“I’m a big girl, Clarence. I’ve dealt with worse. I can handle anything.”

“You’ve proven that.”

Meg smiled and Dean was absolutely certain that she would kill him if she knew he saw that, uneasy truce or no. He returned to the bedroom, not to sleep, but to wait. The conversation seemed too private for Dean to interrupt. 

When the door opened, Dean heard only Meg’s heavy gait. He took a deep breath and hoped without much heart that the kitchen was empty. Much to his lack of surprise, it was not.

Dean tiptoed across the floor, trying not to draw Meg’s attention from where she sat hunched over the kitchen table. It did not work.

“Hey, eavesdropper.” Meg had a bruise on her shoulder, the yellowed edge creeping up her neck.

“What happened to you?” Dean asked.

“Clarence is a little jumpy, is all.” Meg poked at the mark then shrugged. “I think it bugged him more than me.”

“Why would he…?”

“Caught him by surprise. He thought I was a Creature and got me. And, since you are no doubt extremely concerned, you’ll be happy to know I’m completely fine.”

“I’m thrilled.” Dean finished his journey to the door. Meg tracked every movement.

“Dean.” His name spoken by Meg would be enough to give him pause but it was the quiet way she said it, the lack of acid, that made him turn around. She continued, “You’re going to take him back to the humans and make him fight again, right?”

“It’s what the king wants.”

Meg hummed, taking in Dean’s subdued mood. “He will, you know, if you ask him.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. “What’s your point?”

“Nothing,” Meg said, her eyes lost in the shadows as she leaned forward in her chair. “Just observing.”

She did not say anything else. She watched Dean, unblinking, grinning at his obvious discomfort. Dean shook his head, gave up on finding a final word, and went outside. 

Castiel was where Dean last saw him. Dean approached cautiously, making sure Castiel could see and hear his approach. Castiel said nothing when Dean joined him in the sand, his gaze completely focused on the horizon. Maintaining the silence, Dean followed Castiel's line of sight.

The sky glowed with the imminent arrival of the sun. Pink clouds floated in the sky, a few dark with rain. Yellow light gathered at the edge of the water, shining off the waves like polished gold. 

Dean looked at Castiel, seeing his wide eyes shimmering with forever unshed tears. Dean saw Castiel’s slightly parted lips, almost hidden behind his beard. Dean saw the light in the sky bring life into Castiel’s face.

Castiel watched the colours in the sky, colours he never thought he would see again, with rapt attention. Dean could not tear his eyes away from Castiel’s face, a face he thought he lost. 

Both of them saw the sunrise.


	33. Leaves Are Falling All Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm claiming these characters as our own. That's all I'm gonna say.  
> Thanks for being amazing readers. I appreciate you. <3

“So, you can see auras,” Sam said. “Does that mean you can see something within me?”

Pamela slowed her charge down the castle hallway leading to the throne room. She stopped after she realized Sam was no longer beside her. Ready to launch into her usual disclaimers and denial of the Barnes family ‘gift,’ Pamela faced Sam. The words died in her mouth when she saw the expression on Sam’s face. 

“Why would you ask that?” Pamela tried to catch Sam’s eye, but he looked down at his hands.

“No reason.” Sam twined his fingers around each other. “Just, uh, curious.”

Anyone could have seen through the blatant lie. Sam had spent the last five years not dwelling on the past. More often than not he succeeded but he never let himself forget how touching the cage felt. He never let himself forget his inner darkness. He never forgot how he made a deal with a Demon.

Sam believed he fulfilled the deal’s conditions. He took care of the Devil. He made sure the terms of the deal could be interpreted a certain way and, based on the last time he saw Ruby, she likely was not keen on arguing against that. 

Sam worried. Sam worried about how the sanguis affected him on the metaphysical level. Sam worried that the dark part of him had festered, that ignoring it allowed it to rot him from the inside. 

And he worried that, somehow, Pamela could see it. 

Pamela knew none of this. She could not. She did, however, understand the undisguised worry in his eyes and the hesitation in his voice. She reached out, stilling Sam’s restless hands and made sure he could see the truth in her words.

“Sam, honey, you’re just a regular guy,” Pamela said. “With fantastic assets, I might add.”

Sam snorted. “You know I’m taken these days?”

“And she is one very lucky-- very brave-- lady.”

Smiling, Sam continued down the hallway. His steps were light. If Pamela joked around with him, then she could not have seen anything too bad. Pamela caught up to him at the throne room door, the guards on duty waiting for Sam’s signal to proceed

“You know,” Sam said, “I’ve never actually been to one of these audiences before.” 

“Oh, it’s not that hard,” Pamela said. “You just stand by the Captain and nod every once in a while.”

“Yeah but--” Sam rubbed his hands together. “We need to talk about Kevin.”

“We agree to help his mom, he agrees to help us with the War. It’s win-win.”

“All I gotta do is convince the king.”

“Yeah, no big. Don’t worry. The king knows we need all the help we can get.”

Sam breathed deeply, then licked his lips. He looked up at the double doors looming over him and signalled the guards to open them. 

“Pamela,” Sam said as they walked toward the Throne of Gold, “thanks for backing me up.”

“Hey, it was either this or paperwork.”

⁂

Castiel’s armour was unsalvageable. Dean’s spare set of clothes were tight in the legs but they were whole and clean, so Castiel could not complain. He repaired his boots as well as he could, though he was no cobbler, and he hoped they would last long enough to reach the next town. Dean fretted over Castiel’s lack of proper equipment but Meg’s stores had been picked clean. Castiel had his sword and plenty of places to hide his weapons so he was not worried. He could protect Dean. 

While Dean finished packing his bedroll and supplies, Castiel stood at the shoreline with his hands clasped behind his back. He breathed in the salty air and watched the waves one last time. 

It was peaceful here. He could stay. Meg offered him the chance. She seemed unsurprised when he declined. 

The Long War raged on. Castiel could not rest until he knew no more humans would be caught in its storm. It was, however, uncertain if he could rest at all.

The cabin door slammed closed then loud footsteps approached Castiel. Dean always made sure Castiel could see and hear him before speaking. Castiel appreciated it. 

“You ready?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” Castiel said. “I suppose I won’t until we get there.”

“Listen, Cas, if you wanna stay here I--”

“No. It’s alright.”

“Okay.” Dean rested his palm between Castiel’s shoulder blades, his warm hand easing the tension there. “First town we see, we’re getting you geared up. And you better not push yourself too hard.”

Castiel raised his eyebrow and hummed. “You’ll follow your own advice, I’m sure.” 

“Course I will.” Dean picked up his pack and straightened his travel cloak. “C’mon, Cas, the creepy forest awaits.”

⁂

“You’re right,” Castiel said. “The forest is creepy,” 

Dean stepped over a tree root then looked over his shoulder at Castiel. “Why? Because it’s empty?”

“Precisely because it’s empty.” 

“Well, good ol’ Balthy cleared the monsters out when we were on the way here.”

“I suppose.” 

A sharp rock dug into the sole of his boot. Castiel kicked it away. Fallen leaves crunched underfoot, their edges tinged with the first hint of autumn. Every shadow, every gust of wind which loosed more leaves to the ground, made Castiel drop his hand to his sword and survey every corner, every hint of movement. 

Dean touched Castiel’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“This forest is…”

The forest was more alive and vibrant but the differences did not matter. Castiel spent years checking behind trees and listening for any sound which could be an approaching enemy. A few days outside of Purgatory did not mean Castiel had actually left.

Castiel never finished the thought but Dean understood. 

“How about we talk?” Dean asked.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “About what?”

“You know, stuff.”

“Stuff.”

“Yeah. like…” 

Dean trailed off as he tried to choose a topic. He and Castiel had not talked much beyond basic needs, partially because Castiel needed time to recover but mostly because neither knew what to say. Castiel did not know how to ask about the past years. Dean did not know how to ask Castiel to fight again. 

“Like,” Dean began, setting on his most familiar topic, “Sam. He’s a full-fledged healer these days. He does research too. I bet he’s going to read his way through the library soon.” 

“I’m glad he’s doing well,” Castiel said.

“Yeah. He’s got a girl and everything.”

Castiel cast his arm out before Dean’s chest to stop him before he tripped over a fallen log. Dean and Castiel climbed over it and continued their journey. 

“Is everyone else still in the Capital?” Castiel asked.

“Bobby’s still the Captain, kicking all kinds of ass. Pamela got her own special squad. Aaron’s becoming a great leader.” Dean paused to shove a branch aside. 

“What about Garth?”

“Um--” Dean clicked his tongue and hurried ahead. “He’s alive.”

“Dean.” Castiel grabbed the back of Dean’s pack, stopping him in his tracks. “Tell me.”

Dean turned, his feet scratching across the dirt. “He’s fine. He’s just, you know, a werewolf.”

“A were--”

“Awakened! And I think he had a girlfriend? Maybe.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Where did you meet him?”

“So, clearly we have a lot to catch up on,” Dean said. “The good news is, we got a long journey to do it.”

⁂

After three unsuccessful tries, Dean sparked a fire. He pumped his fist in quiet celebration before he stoked the small flame into a proper source of warmth and light. Once he successfully completed his task, he smiled at Castiel leaning against the cave wall and winked.

Castiel waited for Dean to pass by on his way to set up the bedroll before he smiled back. Dean insisted they make camp, even though there were still hours of daylight left. While Dean claimed it was because he was tired, Castiel knew it was about him. Castiel was perfectly fine to fight or walk and he did not like being coddled. He told Dean as much, but all he received was a platitude and an over-exaggerated yawn. After that, Castiel sat down and did not speak. 

“So,” Dean said as he sat in front of Castiel, “you still mad at me?” 

Dean held out a half loaf of bread. Castiel took it, passing it from hand to hand like a child’s ball.

“Guess you are.” Dean shrugged, biting into his bread. 

“I’m not mad at you,” Castiel said staring down at his hands.

“Yeah, you are.”

“I’m not.”

Dean made an unconvinced sound. “Well, at least you’re talking now.”

Castiel glared. Though he did not require sustenance, he bit into the bread.

Dean grinned. “You know, you’re kinda cute when you're grumpy.” Castiel tilted his head, watching the blush bloom across Dean’s cheeks. Dean ran a hand through his hair and stood up. “Uh, anyway, I’d tell you to take the bedroll but--”

“I am perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, that. Night, Cas.” 

A few moments after Dean settled into the bedroll, Castiel stood by the fire. One hand on his freshly wrapped sword, he kept vigil, listening for any sound, waiting for any disturbance as the sun went down. 

He could be useful. He _was_ useful. No one had to worry about him and he could take care of himself. He was not a burden.

The sound of rustling leaves and cautious footsteps came from the left. Castiel closed his eyes, listening. The footsteps advanced-- two sets of them by Castiel’s estimation-- far enough away that the fire was not visible. 

Time to be useful.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?” The reply was too quick and coherent for Dean to have been asleep.

“Creatures.”

“Where?” Dean reached Castiel’s side, ready for battle.

“Our left.” Castiel paused to listen. “Two. Sound like vampires.”

“You got all that from sound?”

“Yes.” Castiel stepped forward. “They don’t know we’re here. I’ll circle around. You come in from the front. Only attack after me.”

“Cas--”

“Dean. We need to move.”

Without waiting for a reply, Castiel exited the cave. He used the darkness to his advantage, dashing from tree to tree in order to reach the Creatures before they noticed him. 

The vampires-- one male and one female, both young-- took wary steps in the direction of the cave, exchanging glances with each other every few feet. Castiel trailed them, waiting until they could see the fire flickering in the distance.

The vampires remained silent. They opened their mouths, fangs shining in the moonlight, and their careful pace became a hurried rush. Their goal in sight, the vampires missed the threat approaching them from behind.

When Castiel stuck, the male vampire did not have a chance to see the sword which severed his neck. The female vampire whirled around, hissing when she saw Castiel. She leapt for Castiel, her fangs sharp and ready to rip out his throat. Castiel readied his sword and waited. 

He let the vampire’s strong hands grip the back of his head and wretch his head to the side to expose his neck. Her fangs scratched across his skin, drawing thin lines of blood. Just before she pierced the skin, however, she stopped. 

The vampire drew back. Her mouth pulled wide, as if both ends were attached to strings, and her eyes rolled in their sockets.

“Hello, Metatron,” Castiel said. 

“Castiel,” the Metatron said, “what a polite greeting. I suppose you’re trying to be part of society again? Like you could.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Metatron. I’m still going to kill you.”

“I’d like to see you try. It would make for a great story.”

A primal scream burst from the vampire’s mouth. It was not of the vampire, or the Metatron, but from somewhere deep within her unconscious mind. From that place, she brought forth every last bit of her power and hit Castiel, palm open, in the centre of his chest.

“Cas!” Dean cried when he saw Castiel slam into the tree behind him. 

Castiel crumpled, unable to reply. The vampire closed in. Castiel’s sword was a few feet away in the grass but Castiel could not reach for it. He could not look up to see the vampire reach him. He could, however, hear her hiss and Dean’s answering cry.

The female vampire’s head rolled across the grass; her body collapsed. Dean wiped his sword and hurried to Castiel's side.

“You idiot!” Dean checked the wounds on Castiel’s neck, deemed them superficial, then noticed the bruise peeking out from under his shirt. “You don’t have any armour or boots or anything, and you go off like that?” 

“It worked.”

“I don’t care if it worked!” Dean wrapped an arm around Castiel’s back and helped him to his feet. “I care about keeping you in one piece.” He picked up Castiel’s sword as he headed back to the cave. “Less than a week and I’m patching you up already.” 

Dean set Castiel on the cave floor and propped him against the stone wall. Dean rummaged through his pack, his meticulously packed belongings clattering to the ground as he threw them aside. With little more than an annoyed huff, Dean produced his new and improved ‘Dean-aid kit,’ courtesy of Sam, and returned to Castiel. 

Dean’s hands shook as he unbuttoned Castiel’s shirt. When he saw the red handprint shaped bruise on Castiel’s chest, he winced. Castiel himself did not make a sound. 

“You,” Dean said, slapping a pungent smelling paste onto Castiel’s chest, “are really fucking stupid.”

Castiel lolled his head back against the wall and grimaced. “Who’s mad now?”

“Shut up.” Dean rubbed the paste into Castiel’s skin, his touch light and his fingers warm. 

It still hurt. Castiel shifted his legs, trying not to cry out. “I’m can be useful, Dean.”

“Useful? What are you talking about?”

“That was why you came to find me, correct? To make use of me. To bring back the Angel help with the War.”

Dean’s hand stilled, his palm next to Castiel’s heart. “What? I didn’t do it for that.”

“You’re a knight, are you not? You must have been ordered to find me.”

Dean leaned back then discarded the now empty paste container. He took his time finding a clean bandage. “Okay. Fine. I was ordered.” 

“The Angel is of no use if you don’t let him fight.”

“Damn it, Cas. You know I don’t give a shit about that Angel stuff.”

“No? Then why did you come to find me?”

“Because,” Dean said, placing the bandage on Castiel’s neck wound, “a few years ago this guy helped me out. He taught me how to read, how to fight, how to lead. He saved my life, my brother’s life, and a whole lot of other people.” His task complete, Dean could back away. He did not. “That guy told me that I might help him one day. So, I figured I would.”

“Dean--”

“I thought you were _dead_ , Cas.” Dean blinked rapidly, his eyes wet. “And then I learned you weren’t and I--” He sniffed, then wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “I’m sorry, Cas, I’m so sorry. I should have rescued you sooner. I should have--” 

“Dean.” Castiel brought a hand to Dean’s cheek. “I’m right here.”

Dean looked up and, for a moment, Castiel forgot himself. He forgot about the cave. He forgot about the pain of his wounds. He forgot about the mission. All he could think about was the colour green.

“Yeah, but only if I can keep you from throwing yourself into a bunch of angry, hungry monsters who wanna kill you.” Dean placed his hand over Castiel’s, holding him there. “Just try to stay in one piece. For me?” 

The warmth from Dean’s skin spread all through Castiel’s body. Dean’s eyes flicked down to Castiel’s lips and, while Dean had done that many times before, it was the first time Castiel paid attention to it. Castiel stared at Dean, attributing his rapid breathing to his wounds. He ignored the fact he did not have that symptom before. 

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked. “It’s kinda hard to see through all that hair but you look a little flushed.” 

“You keep mentioning my hair,” Castiel said. “Is it bad?”

“It’s not that it’s bad. It’s just…” Dean released Castiel’s hand. “Different. And you didn’t answer my question.”

Castiel dropped his hand and leaned heavily against the wall, feeling strangely cold. “I think I should rest.”

“About time.”

⁂

“How’re the new boots, Cas?”

“There are no holes.”

“And that was the goal! Between that and the new armour, you’re practically a new man.”

“Man?”

“Celestial. Whatever.”

Castiel shook his head, smiling down at his feet. Yellow and red leaves crunched under his new boots as he and Dean passed through the town gates. 

“Leaves are falling all around,” Castiel said.

Dean led Castiel down a dusty path. “Yeah. I guess we took longer than I thought.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, it was barely summer when I left.” Dean rubbed his chin, his steps slowing. “I hope Sam’s okay.”

“Sam sounds very capable, from what you told me.”

“Course he is. It’s just, you know--”

“You miss him.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah. Guess I do.”

Castiel touched Dean’s shoulder. “If we stay our pace, we could be there in less than a month.”

“Well, we _could_ ,” Dean said, “but we don’t _have_ to.” 

Castiel squeezed Dean’s shoulder and brought them to a stop. Dean faced Castiel, his lips pressed together. He rubbed the back of his neck again, a gesture Castiel learned Dean made when he was nervous.

“What are you thinking?” Castiel asked.

“How would you feel about making a little side trip?”


	34. Lawrence

Lawrence had not changed. It was still a small village. It was still spared the violent effects of the Long War. When Dean walked through the open Lawrence gates, he swore he travelled back in time. He was a child again, running through the green grass with his brother, a wooden sword in his hands while he played at being a hero. 

The illusion shattered when the tip of a sword pressed into his throat and an authoritative voice said, “State your business.”

Dean raised his hands, signalling Castiel behind him to stay his hand, and rotated his body to face his assailant. At the same time, Dean and the man with the sword widened their eyes and gasped.

“Vic?” Dean asked.

Simultaneously, Victor said, “Dean.”

During the short pause where Dean and Victor stared at each other, astonished, Castiel glanced between the two men. If Victor had not sheathed his sword a second later, Castiel would have disarmed him. He did not care if Victor was a friend. He did not like anyone threatening Dean.

“Shit, man,” Victor said, “I thought you were in the Capital.”

“I thought you’d be on the other side of the Realm by now,” Dean said. 

“Nah.” Victor grinned, his teeth white against his dark skin. “Turns out I get seasick. Like, _really_ , seasick.”

“That’s some bad luck. But it’s good to see you.” Dean opened his arms.

“If it weren’t for bad luck,” Victor said, accepting the hug, “I wouldn’t have any at all.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Dean clapped Victor on the back then pulled away to stand beside Castiel. “This is Cas. He’s my friend.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Castiel said, nodding to Victor.

“Yeah.” Victor rubbed his chin, smoothing his well-kept beard. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Unlikely.” 

Victor pursed his lips, watching Castiel for another moment before returning his attention to Dean. “I bet you could use a good drink. I’m still on guard duty but I could point you to one very good tavern.”

“Thanks, Vic,” Dean said, looking down the familiar path to the back of the village, “but I think I remember the way.”

Dean waved and directed Castiel down the path. It was the long way, but Dean wanted to take his time. A few villagers noticed their passing but, with the sunlight shining off their arms and armour, none came too close. 

“So,” Dean began, “do you know Vic from somewhere?”

“Only your stories,” Castiel said. “We could have crossed paths but I try to maintain distance from humans.”

“Really? You don’t seem to maintain distance from me.”

Castiel studied the dust covering his boots and the yellow leaves along the path. Dirt and fine rock crunched underfoot as he and Dean walked in silence. There was little more to see than a few small homes and farmland as they moved but Castiel made the effort to look at all of it rather than Dean. 

Dean noticed Castiel’s lack of response. He opened his mouth-- perhaps to tease, perhaps to change the topic-- and closed it again without a word. A scorched patch in the grass, surrounded by overgrown farmland, caught his eye. It was far off the path and, as a child, Dean rarely took note of it. On that day, however, Dean stopped, turned, and pushed the weeds out of his way as he travelled toward the blackened spot. 

He knelt, touching the dry grass at the edge of the dead soil. Nothing grew in a square patch, the shape of it filled with soot and unchanged since the day the Winchester’s house burned.

Castiel followed Dean but remained behind him, not daring to close in on the scorched land. He could feel the Demon’s influence, could smell the smoke in the air as if it were still burning, and knew exactly where he stood.

“I, uh--” Dean straightened and cleared his throat. “I forgot this was on the way.” 

“That’s alright,” Castiel said.

“Technically the land belongs to me. I mean, it’s not much but--”

“It’s home.”

“Yeah.” Dean backed away from the blackened spot and stood alongside Castiel. “I don’t know why it never grew back. I mean, if I wanted to sell it-- and I don’t-- no one would want it. It’s been decades and it still smells.”

“It’s the Demon’s-- Azazel’s-- power. The fires of Hell scarred the land. It left a wound where everything started.”

“Wow. Bastard’s fucking things up from beyond the grave.”

“I suppose,” Castiel said, thoughtful. He allowed himself to take one more step forward, Imperceptible to the human eye but obvious to his Celestial self, a thin line of black smoke rose from the centre of the square. “A wound…”

A woman approached the two men, who had their back to her. She redied her crossbow, the old wood well cared for, and aimed. 

“I don’t know who you think you are,” the woman said, “but this land does not belong to you.”

Dean turned around. Castiel did not bother, figuring Dean could handle it, and continued to watch the smoke rise.

“Actually,” Dean said, holding his hands out to his side so the newcomer could see they were empty, “it kinda does.”

The woman lowered her crossbow, her long loose hair flowing in the breeze. “Dean?”

“Hey, Ellen.”

“You asshole,” she said, hurrying towards Dean, “You could've told me you were coming. C’mon, let me look at you.” 

“It was kinda an unexpected--”

“Are you eating okay?” Ellen gripped Dean by the elbows, her brow lowered as she looked him up and down. “Sleeping? You look tired.”

“I’m fine. There’s someone I want you to--”

“Because if they ain’t treating you right in that castle I’ll march over and give them a piece of my--”

Analysis complete, Castiel addressed Ellen. “How was your last harvest?”

Ellen jerked back from Dean and raised her weapon. “What?”

Dean pushed down her hand. “It’s okay. This is--”

“We can do introductions later.” Castiel eyed Ellen, his stare demanding answers. “How was your last harvest? Are you yielding less each year? Out of those that survive, do they taste strange? Perhaps they taste burnt or metallic.”

“What?” Ellen glanced at Dean. When he nodded, she answered, “The harvest has been a little sparse lately. There’s a War, after all. And yeah, sometimes they taste off. How would you know that?” 

Castiel did not break his stare. Ellen squirmed under the scrutiny. Castiel scratched his beard then asked, “When did you first notice this?”

“I don’t know!” Ellen pinched the bridge of her nose. “Maybe five, six years ago?”

Castiel pursed his lips and nodded. He walked towards the black patch.

“Hold on, Cas. What are you doing?” Dean asked, chasing after him. 

“I suspect that this wound is poisoning the land,” Castiel said.

“What? That’s nuts.”

“Hell was destroyed over five years ago. It is possible that made the wound fester and spread.”

Ellen glanced between the two men, her hair flying as she moved her head. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “Cas, what are you talking about?”

The dry, cracking soot turned into black clouds when Castiel stepped into the square. He reached the centre and dropped so he could touch the place where he saw smoke. He brushed away the soot, revealing a glowing red crack. 

“If I don’t heal this wound, it will spread across the land. It could go beyond the village,” Castiel said.

Dean stood at the edge of the green grass. Ellen joined him. Dean did not touch the soot. “Heal? No. You can’t.”

“This will destroy your village, possibly spread beyond it.”

“But not right away. We’ll figure something out.” Dean shook his head. “You don’t have to use your powers for me.”

“Dean.” Castiel tossed his head back, his eyes blazing. “Believe it or not, not _everything_ I do is about you.”

“Is he glowing?” Ellen asked, grabbing Dean by the arm.

“I know that!” Dean racked his hand through his hair. Staring up at the sun was less painful than looking at Castiel, whose body glowed with power. “But you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” Castiel did not shout but the force in his voice stilled the others. “I did this. I let this happen.” His palms glowed. He pressed them against the ground. “I can fix it.”

All of Castiel’s gathered power surged from his body and into the ground. He pressed his palms over the crack, acting as a makeshift seal. The ground shimmered with Castiel’s light, the cracks under the soot lighting up like the veins on a human arm. 

Castiel raised his hands over his head then struck them against the ground. The light rippled across the ground over and over. Each time, the soot blew away. Each time, green grass pushed through from underneath. 

When all the soot had blown away and all the grass returned, Castiel slammed his hands against the crack and sealed the wound. 

“What? _What_?” Ellen could not decide whether she needed her crossbow or not, so it hovered uselessly by her waist. “What just happened? What is that guy?” 

Dean ran into the newly green grass, a more healthy colour than all the land which surrounded it, and caught Castiel before he fell. “Cas? C’mon, buddy, what did we _just_ talk about?” 

Breathing heavily, with soot coating his skin, Castiel looked up at Dean and smiled. He closed his eyes and, for the first time since Dean had met him, Castiel’s face showed peace.

⁂

“Did you think, maybe, just maybe, you could go a whole month without hurting yourself, charging off recklessly, or passing out?”

The fact that Castiel was hardly awake did not stop Dean from launching into his speech. Castiel rubbed his eyes and sat up in the single bed, pushed into one corner of the room, and surveyed the area. His head tilted back and forth like a baby bird.

“Welcome back to Harvelle’s,” Dean said, sitting on the opposite bed. He spread his arms wide to encompass the entire room. “This is my childhood home.”

Mismatched wooden slats structured the room and the wooden floorboards shone from years of wear created by young Winchester feet. The two beds were the same ones from the brothers' childhoods. Sam’s old crib was pushed against the back wall, still there from the day Dean cried when Ellen said she would sell it. A bookcase sat on Sam’s side of the room, his old study notes filling the shelves. Adding in the table and chair next to the crib, the small room was crammed with memories. 

“It seems…” Castiel groaned when he tried to put his feet on the floor. He resigned himself to remaining in bed. “Well-loved.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Dean stood, both feet hitting the floor with a declarative thump. “It’s also the place your ass is gonna stay until you’re better.”

“I’m not ill.”

“Close enough. After your last little stunt, you’ll be lucky if I let you leave this room.” Before Castiel could say anything, Dean held up a finger to cut him off. “Look. Stay here. Get better. Then we’ll figure something out.”

Dean felt Castiel’s burning glare on the back of his head as he left the room, his footsteps echoing on the way down the stairs. Dean knew exactly where to step to be silent-- a trick he learned in his teenage years-- but he was angry and being angry made Dean petty. 

Opening the door at the bottom of the stairs which cut off the tavern proper from the living quarters, Dean attempted to smile when he noticed Ellen watching him from behind the bar. He was not convincing. Ellen shook her head and retreated into the back room, returning with a full mug and a bowl of porridge. One raised eyebrow from Ellen and Dean took a seat at the bar, picked up a spoon, and ate. 

“You two have a fight?” Ellen asked. 

Dean glanced up from his mug-- full of water since Ellen would not give him a beer before evening-- and raised his eyebrows. 

“You look like a little raincloud is over your head.” Ellen rested an elbow on the bar then put her chin in her hand. “You know, Bill used to have the same look when we had a fight.”

Carefully, Dean set down his mug. He did not remember much about Willliam Harvelle, since he spent most of his time away from the village on mercenary work. A job got the better of him one day, a job like any other, when Jo was four.

“Don’t you have some work to do?” Dean asked.

“Not ‘til later. It’s still morning,” Ellen said. “Nice try on dodging the question, by the way.”

“We didn’t fight.”

“Ah, so you stomped down the stairs _before_ you could fight.”

To avoid eye contact, Dean sipped his water. Of course, that told Ellen everything she needed to know.

“You know,” Ellen said, bracing both hands against the bartop, “you never did tell me who this ‘Cas’ guy is.”

“You know,” Dean said, dropping his spoon into the bowl, “you never did tell me where Jo is.”

Ellen stood at her full height and crossed his arms. From that angle, Dean had to peer up into Ellen’s disapproving face. Dean shrunk, feeling like a boy again.

“Alright,” she said, “I answer your question and you answer mine. Deal?”

“Fine.”

“Truth is, I don’t know where Jo is. She just woke up one day and decided she wanted to be a merc. I told her, ‘Not under my roof.’ She said, ‘Okay.’ Next day, she was gone.” Ellen reached under the bar and opened her private cabinet. Bottles and glasses clinked against each other as she searched. “Was hoping she went by the Capital and found you.” 

“No. I-- I--” Dean scraped the side of the bowl with his spoon, unable to summon the appetite to finish his meal. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would you? I never told you in my letters.” Ellen stood, a glass of whiskey in hand. She downed it. “Not that I can write much. You’re better than me, these days.”

“Still, I could have visited or--”

“You’re trying to save the whole damn Realm. Don’t worry. I got a village looking after me.”

“I guess.”

“But who looks after you?”

Dean’s spoon bounced out of the bowl and tumbled onto the bartop. “What?”

“You’re too damn thin,” Ellen said, “and if you put any more weight on those shoulders of yours you won’t be able to stand up.”

Dean stood and made a show of moving his shoulders. “See. Perfectly fine.” 

“Dean Winchester.” The power of his full name made Dean sit down. Ellen put her hands on her hips. “Don’t bullshit me.”

Pushing his bowl away, Dean sighed. He tapped his hands on the bartop a few times before he glanced at Ellen. “Okay, but you’re gonna need to share that whiskey.”

“Special occasion.” Ellen disappeared under the bar before she produced another glass for Dean. 

Like Ellen, Dean finished the whiskey in one swig. “It’s my job to take care of people. You know that. I send my troops to battle, try to keep ‘em alive.” He shrugged and set down his empty glass. “I do what I can: train ‘em, kick ‘em in the ass--”

“--confine them to your childhood bedroom,” Ellen finished. 

“Oh.” Dean bit his lip. “You heard that.”

“It’s a pretty small building.”

“Right. I forgot.”

“So, what makes you want to lock that guy upstairs?”

Dean rubbed the back of his head, wondering the same thing. “I don’t know.”

“Really?” Ellen raised her eyebrows. “I have a few ideas.”

“Care to share?”

“Well, first you’re gonna have to tell me about him.”

“You sure? It’s a long story and some of it is up to Cas to tell you.”

“I don’t mind. I got more whiskey.” 

⁂

The floors were cleared of dust and debris. The tables sparkled under the afternoon sun shining through the windows. No glass behind the bar had a single visible spot and every plate and bowl was neatly stacked and put away. Standing in the middle of Harvelle’s, Castiel surveyed his work and deemed it acceptable. 

The front door opened. Ellen teetered into the building as she tried to balance multiple grocery bags. She tripped over a loose floorboard in the threshold and her topmost bag tipped over, sending red tomatoes rolling across the floor. To keep Ellen from stumbling over one of them, Castiel grabbed the bags and carried them with ease to the bar. After picking up the tomatoes, Ellen joined him.

“Thank you, Castiel.” No longer distracted, Ellen noticed the tavern's state. “You cleaned up. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I don’t mind.” Castiel dug through the bags, storing the food in their proper places. “This work is”-- he emptied the last bag, folding them carefully for future use-- “uncomplicated.” 

“And here I thought it was boring,” Ellen said, taking a seat at the bar. “I’m not complaining but didn’t Dean order you to rest?”

“Order.” Castiel crossed his arms and leaned against the bar. “I suppose Dean has forgotten I’m not one of his subordinates.” 

With his back to her, Castiel missed Ellen’s amused smile. “So I’ve heard. He tells me you taught him everything he knows.”

“No, not at all. He’s the one who did the work.”

Ellen put her chin in her hand, angling her head at the best see Castiel's face. “You know, he told me a lot about you.”

To Ellen, Castiel’s reaction was only a blink. That one blink hinted at the myriad of thoughts and emotions that flashed through his mind.

In a measured tone, Castiel asked, “Did he?”

“Yeah.” Ellen paused, considering Castiel’s expression-- or lack of it. “He didn’t tell me _what_ you are though.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “What I am?”

“Can’t say I ever met anybody who glows.”

“My powers glow. Not me.”

“Whatever, Castiel. Same difference.”

Castiel huffed out a laugh. “Dean said the same thing.”

“So, what are the glow-powers, anyway? Make grass nice and green?”

“There was a wound in the land, so I healed it. It’s something I should have done years ago.”

Castiel had not been entirely truthful when he told Dean why he entered Lawrence, all those years ago. On that fateful night, Castiel had felt Hell's power in the village. It was why he returned. That time, however, he could do little more than acknowledge its existence. The wound was not deep then and Castiel did not have the ability, knowledge or wherewithal to heal it. He hesitated. 

Castiel’s time in Purgatory taught him a lot. His command over his powers was stronger than ever before. This time, once he realized he had allowed Azazel’s corruption to poison Lawrence, he knew he could fix it. He did not hesitate. 

“Healed?” Ellen asked. “I don’t know anyone who can do that.”

“As you no doubt figured out,” Castiel said, turning to look Ellen in the eye. “I’m not human.”

Ellen stared back, reading the challenge in his eyes. He knew she assessed him. He knew the hand hidden at her waist touched a knife. He knew she did not know what to make of him. 

Castiel did not begrudge Ellen’s caution. To her, he was a stranger, one who was a potential threat to Dean. Castiel did not mind. He was glad someone looked out for Dean. 

“Right,” Ellen said. “And you are?”

“Not a threat.”

Sunlight poured into the building when Dean opened the door. He squinted, unable to see into the darkened bar well enough to notice the tension. 

“Can you believe,” Dean said, “Kurbrick is still mad about the broken fence? I fell through that fifteen years ago!”

With an eyebrow ever so slightly raised, Ellen broke from Castiel and faced Dean. “Well, you never did fix it.”

“Oh c’mon. I was a kid.” Dean sauntered up to the bar, grinning when he saw Castiel. He took a seat next to Ellen. “Look at you, Cas. You a bartender now?” 

Castiel shrugged. “A friend suggested bar work as a potential retirement plan.” 

“Retirement?” Dean laughed. “Sure, why not? I’ll take your finest ale.”

Dean laughed again when Castiel tilted his head. Ellen stood then walked to the back of the bar. When she moved to lay a hand on Castiel's arm, he twisted out of the way so she could not touch him. The movement was subtle; Dean did not notice. Ellen lowered her arm and grabbed a glass from under the bar acting as if that was always her intention. 

“Water only,” Ellen said. “You’ll have plenty to drink tonight.”

“Tonight?” Castiel asked. 

“Oh, yeah.” Dean rapped his knuckles against the bartop. “I tried to talk them outta it but--”

“--when the town heard we had a guest,” Ellen said, “especially one of Dean’s--” 

“-- all of ‘em decided they were coming to Harvelle’s tonight,” Dean finished.

“All of them?” Castiel narrowed his eyes. 

It was a small movement, but Dean caught the flash of worry. “Listen, if you’re not up to it, I’ll make some excuses.”

“No, it’s fine. It would be interesting to put faces to the names.” Castiel stroked his beard. “Perhaps I should clean up?”


	35. Dean

Castiel sat in the chair and leaned back, water droplets falling to the floor from his freshly washed hair. Dean ran his hands over the smooth wood of the table, smiling when he saw the inkblots from a younger Sam’s homemade quills, and took stock of his equipment. After some digging, Dean found some old grooming supplies. He had to sharpen the scissors and William Harvelle’s old razer but they would work. 

Dean picked up the scissors and comb, turned around, and choked on his own breath. There, in the middle of his childhood bedroom, sat Castiel with his eyes closed and expression relaxed. The towel draped over Castiel’s shoulders did nothing to hide his muscled chest and his lack of shirt afforded Dean with an excellent view of tanned skin, still slightly pink from bathing. 

Pressing his lips together, Dean leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and exhaled through his nose. Afterwards, he walked behind the chair and, with another breath, ran his fingers through Castiel’s hair. 

“So,” Dean began, “did you decide? Keep it longer? Shorter? Just get rid of it all?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel blinked up at Dean. “You’re the expert. I trust you.”

“I'm not so sure about 'expert' but don't worry.” Dean moved Castiel’s head downward. “I got you.”

Castiel’s hair was softer than Dean expected. He could not help but run his hands through it after every cut. Castiel did not mind. Every time Dean scratched Castiel’s scalp or guided him to move his head with a gentle touch, Castiel released a quiet, unconscious breath, one unnoticeable to all but the closest observers. And, at that moment, Dean was very close.

“Are you well, Dean?” Castiel asked.

Dean hummed, the comb between his teeth as he compared the length of two sections of hair.

Castiel understood Dean's need for clarification. “You haven’t spoken about what happened in Purgatory.”

“A whole lot happened, Cas.” Dean dropped another section of hair. “And I think what happened in Purgatory should stay in Purgatory.”

“That doesn’t mean you are free of its effects. It doesn’t mean you can’t feel Benny’s--”

“Cas.” Dean clutched the back of the chair, the comb and scissors digging into his palm. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Very well.” Castiel leaned his head back to look Dean in the eye. “I want you to know it’s okay to feel something. You seemed to be close.”

Dean licked his lips. He nodded, then pushed Castiel’s head down to resume his work. For a while, the only sound was the snip of the scissors.

“He’s not dead,” Dean said. “He told me he was gonna stay behind. If we could get out then…”

“Of course, Dean.” 

Circling to the front of Castiel, Dean crossed his arms and studied Castiel’s hair. Dean kept the top a little longer and he had to admit the mused look was appealing, especially after Dean ran his hand through the strands.

“There we go,” Dean said, leaning against the table. “Now it’s time for the beard. Do you wanna trim it, or get rid of the whole thing?”

“It is itchy.” Castiel scratched his cheek, the bristles rustling. “Let’s be rid of it.”

Dean smiled. He grabbed a warm, wet towel and pressed it to Castiel’s face. Dean focused on his task, willing himself to not notice the heat from Castiel’s body or the slight hitch in his breath when Dean pulled back the towel and ran his fingers through the beard. 

“Little long,” Dean said. “I think I’ll trim it a bit first.”

He did as he said, letting the cut hair fall to Castiel’s chest. Dean did not think about it when he went to bush it away with the back of his hand. The skin under Dean’s hand was smooth and taut with muscle and, before Dean jerked his hand back, he felt Castiel’s heart beating fast and hard. 

Using his need for a new tool to turn his back on Castiel, Dean reached for the shaving soap and took his time preparing it. It allowed Dean a moment to collect himself. Castiel watched Dean, head inclined, touching his fingers to his chest. All was quiet in the room, save for the shouts of children and running feet on the streets below. 

Task complete, Dean returned to Castiel and applied the lather with a brush. His tongue between his teeth, Dean kept his breaths even and his mind only on the actions he performed, not the person. 

It proved difficult for Dean. He glanced up and saw Castiel looking down at him, blue eyes half-lidded and eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks. The sunlight from the window behind Castiel cast a crown of golden light around his head. 

Dean moved on to the razor, every swipe across Castiel’s cheek controlled and careful. No way would Dean risk cutting or nicking Castiel’s skin. The last thing Dean wanted to do was hurt Castiel.

“Dean?”

Dean shushed Castiel. “Stay still. Don’t wanna mess this up.” Castiel fell silent and turned his head to the other side under Dean’s prompting. “You know, the first time I shaved-- I think I was about fifteen-- I cut my face up real good. I had about three whiskers. I got rid of ‘em, but I had red lines all over my face for days.” Dean stopped to wipe the blade on the towel around Castiel’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Castiel said.

“Aw, don’t be,” Dean said, “I wore it like a mark of honour.” 

Castiel’s eyebrows lowered but dutifully said nothing when the blade was against his chin. Dean grinned then became serious as he swiped the razor over the sensitive skin at Castiel’s throat. It did not escape Dean’s notice that Castiel placed a lot of trust in allowing a sharp object to be pressed against his neck. It did not escape Dean’s notice that Castiel tilted his chin back without any fear or hesitation. 

With one final pass over Castiel’s upper lip, Dean was done. He obtained the wet towel again and wiped away any remnants of soap and hair. Leaning in so close Dean practically sat in Castiel’s lap, Dean marvelled at the feel of Castiel’s fresh, smooth skin. He slung the towel over his shoulder and held Castiel’s face in his hands, running his thumbs down the angle of Castiel’s cheekbones. Dean never saw Castiel clean shaven before. 

Castiel watched Dean, watched as his eyes lingered on Castiel's lips. Castiel watched as Dean’s gaze moved up Castiel’s face, to his nose, his temples, and then, finally, his eyes. Castiel watched as Dean’s eyelids fluttered, his green irises shining in the sunlight. Castiel licked his lips.

For one heart-stopping second, Dean thought Castiel wanted to kiss him.

For one heart-racing second, Dean would have let him.

“Dean!” Ellen shouted from downstairs. “Gonna need your help down here.”

Dean jerked back from Castiel, his feet skidding across the floor as he retreated to the table. “I-- I-- I should probably--” Dean jabbed a thumb in the direction of the door.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Castiel ran a hand through his freshly cut hair. “I’ll--” He cleared his throat and stood, staring at the floor. “I’ll clean this up.”

“Yeah. Good idea. I’ll--” 

If asked, Dean would say he did not run for the door but that was exactly what he did. Once the door was safely closed behind him, Dean let out a shaky sigh. He willed himself to calm down, clutching at his chest to feel his heart slow. 

After one more shout from Ellen, Dean walked down the stairs. When he reached the tavern proper, Dean took one, final glance behind him before he closed the door.

⁂

An hour behind the bar and Dean felt like he never left. At first, he worried he lost his aptitude but, once Missouri walked in, sat in her favourite stool at the bar and told Dean all about her grandchild, he knew he would be fine. The Lawrence villagers’ warm greetings when they saw Dean working wrapped around him like a blanket, familiar and soft. 

“Ellen,” Missouri said when Ellen walked by with her hands full of clean glasses, “I see you put your boy right to work.”

“I’d let him rest,” Ellen said, “but I always need a second pair of hands.”

“Oh no, sugar,” Missouri said, voice sweeter than her famous pies, “I didn’t say it was a bad thing. It’s good for Dean to work hard.”

Dean rolled his eyes and took the glasses from Ellen’s hands. He put them away, smiling to himself as he listened to the two women chat about the harvest and town news. The village really was taking care of Ellen. It was comforting to know she would not be alone even after Dean left. 

When _they_ left, Dean reminded himself. Dean stared at the closed door that led upstairs and swallowed around the lump in his throat. He busied himself with chopping the vegetables for Ellen’s stew, his knife hand quick and steady. 

“Oh,” he heard Ellen say from behind him, “I get now.”

Dean pushed the last of the vegetables aside. He did not turn around until he heard Castiel ask, “Get what?” 

“Well, well, well,” Missouri said, “if it isn’t our new guest. And a handsome one at that.”

Castiel regarded Missouri with his usual head tilt. Missouri braced her wrinkled hands on the bartop and pushed herself from her seat with a groan. She smoothed her skirts then offered a hand to Castiel. He stared down at her hand while his own remained at his side. 

Small in stature, especially compared to Castiel, Missouri did not shrink away from Castiel. Her dark eyes searched Castiel’s face. When he met her gaze, her lips parted in a soft gasp. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Missouri said, letting her hand fall, “you’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” 

Castiel did not answer. Dean came out from behind the bar to stand beside Castiel.

“Missouri,” Dean said. “Cas isn’t used to your brand of-- uh, what’d you call it?-- empathy.”

Missouri smiled, pretending not to notice Dean’s hand on the back of Castiel’s arm, and said, "Forgive me. My name’s Missouri. You’re Cas?”

“Yes. Castiel.” He paused. “You have power.”

Missouri raised an eyebrow. “So do you.” She returned to her seat, heaving a great sigh as she sank into it. “Ellen? A refill would be wonderful, dear.”

Dean patted Castiel’s arm. “You thirsty?”

Allowing Dean to lead him to a corner table, Castiel sat with his back to the wall and watched the sunset through the nearby window. Dean bade Castiel wait, then hurried back to the bar. He collected two mugs and filled them, doing everything in his power to ignore Missouri’s knowing smile. 

He returned to the table and slid one mug to Castiel. “You okay?”

Castiel raised a hand to his face, faltering when remembered he no longer had a beard to scratch. “I believe so.”

“Okay. Good. I’ll warn you, everyone’s gonna talk to you and everyone’s gonna buy you a beer.

“That so?”

“Yeah. So, if you need a break or whatever, let me know. I’ll get you out.”

“I’m fine Dean.” Castiel sipped his beer, eyeing Dean over the rim of the mug. “In fact, you seem far more worried than me. Don’t worry. If you need a break or whatever, let me know. I’ll get you out.”

Dean took a drink as he tried to come up with a response. Anything that came to him was lost when he saw Castiel smile and lean back into his chair, looking more at home in the little tavern than he ever did in the castle. 

Instead of a reply, Dean tapped his mug against Castiel’s and mulled over Castiel’s words. He was right. Dean was worried. A part of him was concerned about how Castiel would handle a crowd, but Dean had his own anxiety about seeing the villagers again. He had spoken to many of them over the last few days but not all of them and not all at once. They would all ask him questions: about his job, about Sam, and about Castiel. Dean wanted them to be proud. He wanted them to like Castiel. Most of all, he wanted Castiel to like them.

For a reason unknown to Dean, he desperately needed Castiel’s approval of Lawrence and Lawrence’s approval of Castiel. Dean chose not to examine his feelings. Instead, he finished off his beer, nodded to Castiel, and returned to the bar. 

An hour later, the villagers began filtering in. Dean busied himself with serving drinks to everyone in the rapidly filling tavern, falling back into the familiar pattern of his youth. He laughed off Kurbrick’s comments, slipped Victor an extra shot of whiskey, and respected Robin’s decision to ignore him.

Every time Dean stopped by Castiel’s table, he checked in. Every time, Castiel seemed more than happy to listen to yet another villager's tale. Every time, the villagers were delighted to have a new audience for their old stories.

Harvelle’s rang with song as the night grew long, Missouri’s strong voice leading them into the chorus. All mugs were filled, all questions were answered a thousand times over, and, for a while, all Dean’s work was done. He sat alone with his back to the bar, nursing a final beer he held in his lap, and looked out over the scene before him.

The villagers danced arm in arm, their movements emboldened by the alcohol in their systems, and belted out their songs. He missed nights like this, nights when the whole community gathered together. Sure, Lawrence could be annoying-- it was tiny and everyone knew Dean’s businesses before he did-- but it was his home. Sometimes-- often-- he missed it.

He set his half-finished beer on the bar behind him, then continued his observation. His eyes wandered to Castiel’s table, as they had many times that night. Castiel rested his elbow on the table, his hand propping up his chin. He leaned forward and nodded as Kurbrick spoke. Kurbrick spread his arms high to the ceiling.

Dean knew, without a doubt, that Kurbrick told the story about how he climbed the tallest tree when he was nine years old. Dean knew this because he heard the story a hundred times at least. He could quote it from memory, if he were so inclined. 

Castiel, on the other hand, had never heard it before and was enraptured. He nodded and gasped at the proper times, bolstering Kurbrick’s storytelling to new heights. 

The candlelight bathed Castiel in a soft glow. Dean watched the lights flicker over Castiel’s face, highlighting his red cheeks-- already dusted with light stubble, no wonder he was never clean shaven-- and the shine of the mug Castiel brought to his lips. When Castiel smiled, his lips moving as he spoke to Kurbrick, everything around Dean faded away.

Dean no longer heard the singing villagers. He no longer tasted the beer lingering in his mouth. He no longer saw Kurbrick’s wild gestures. All that mattered was Castiel, the curve of his lips, and the fact he looked happy. 

Ellen appeared behind Dean, her mouth open to ask him for more assistance. When she saw Dean, his gaze locked on Castiel and a soft, vulnerable expression on his face, she closed her mouth. Instead, she took Dean’s mug and refilled it with a fresh beer. When Dean reached behind him for another drink without breaking his stare, he never noticed the difference.

⁂

The sun rose far earlier than it had any business rising. At least that was Dean’s thought when the rays of light peeked through the curtains and hit him directly in the eyes. The sun actually came up later each day-- a natural phenomenon as it was autumn-- but Dean, still bleary eyed and footsore from the night before, had no time for logical thinking.

He sat up, his back twinging as he dressed. He forgot how hard serving could be on the body-- and he was in peak army-commanding shape. He briefly considered adding service work to the training regimen. 

Castiel slept in the other bed on the shadowed side of the room. He quietly snored, lost in the peaceful sleep of the drunk. Dean smiled, remembering how Castiel, arm slung over Dean’s shoulders as he stumbled up the stairs, was absolutely astonished he managed to become drunk at all. He had underestimated the generosity of the Lawrence villagers. 

Dean left Castiel to his rest and headed downstairs. Ellen bustled around the tavern, pushing displaced tables back into their proper places and gathering discarded mugs and glasses. When she walked behind the bar, hands full of drinkware, Dean reached the ground floor. Ellen set her dishes down and pointed to a seat at the bar. Promptly, Dean sat. 

“Good morning,” Ellen said. “How’s our guest?”

“Sleeping it off,” Dean said.

“I bet. I’m pretty sure he drank half a keg alone.” Ellen wiped her hands on her skirt. “I’m surprised he didn’t pass out.”

“He’s got a high tolerance.” 

Ellen made a non-committal sound. She picked up the dishes and brought them to the back. After some clinking and crashing, she returned with a glass of water and a loaf of bread.

“Last clean glass in the place.” Ellen set the glass down and handed Dean the bread, shaking it insistently when he tried to refuse it. “Eat.”

There was no way for Dean to ignore that tone. He did as she ordered while Ellen continued to clear the tavern. Every few tables, Ellen glanced at Dean, her lips pressed together and her eyes shining. 

“Dean,” Ellen said after she picked up the final round of dishes and returned to the bar. “Can I ask you something?”

“If I said no, would that stop you?” Dean grinned up at Ellen. It wavered when he saw her serious expression. “What?”

“You and--” Ellen flattened her palms against the bar and sighed. “You and Castiel. What’s happening there? Why did you bring him here?”

Dean thumped his glass onto the bartop and pushed it away. He straightened his back, one foot on the floor. “Listen. if we’re overstaying our welcome…” 

“No! That’s not what I meant.” Ellen smoothed down her hair. She crossed one arm over her chest and rubbed at her shoulder. “Do you remember how you never introduced me to Robin?”

“You met her.”

“Because I went to her house!”

“As I said: you met her. What does that have to do with anything?”

Ellen shook her head and huffed out an amused sound. As grown up as Dean had become, Ellen could still see the boy she knew-- the boy who worried about everyone’s feelings but his own. 

“Never mind,” Ellen said. “I guess what I really want to know is when you plan to move on. If you plan to.”

“Yeah.” Dean sunk back into his seat. “Yeah, I guess we should’ve a while ago.” He placed his hands on the bartop, twisting his fingers around each other. “It’s just--”

Ellen covered Dean’s hands with one of her own. “Just?”

“I don’t want to.” Dean blinked away the wetness in his eyes. “And that’s selfish. I got a whole damn army waiting for me. There’s the War. People to save. Monsters to fight. But I--” 

“Hey.” Ellen squeezed his hand.

“You know, if it were up to me, Cas would stay here. I could build a house on my land out there. Something nice, y'know? He deserves that. He could plant a garden or watch the bees. I’d even figure out a way to get his damn horse over here if he wanted. Maybe I’d convince Sam to come here, too. But-- But I can’t do that.” 

Dean pulled his hands back from Ellen and wiped at his eyes. Ellen took Dean’s empty glass and headed to the back to refill it. Using the time she was away to collect himself, Dean managed to look her in the eyes when she returned. 

“I gotta go back to the castle. I gotta take Cas back there and when I do, he’ll fight again. He’s done enough.” His throat dry, Dean sipped the water. 

“Dean,” Ellen said, “you really care about him.”

“Ellen, I--” Dean took a deep breath, his hands shaking as he set down the glass. He stared down at his palms, opening and closing them over and over again. A wave crashed over him, one made of realization and emotion that both changed everything and nothing at all. “I think I’m in love with him.”

“Oh, sweetie, I know.” Ellen reached out and took one of Dean’s hands in her own. “After last night, I’m guessing most of the village does, too.” 

“I’m that obvious, huh?” Dean snorted at Ellen’s incredulous look. He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not gonna do anything about it.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because!” Dean jumped from his seat. “C’mon, Ellen, you must’ve figured out who Cas is.”

Ellen straightened, her eyes widening as she thought over the last few days. “He’s the Angel.”

“Yeah. I don't care about the Angel stuff, not really, but it does mean he’s got enough problems and he's gonna get a bunch more soon." Dean turned his back to Ellen and rubbed his neck. “Cas doesn't need to add this to the list. It's not like he could--” He swallowed and dropped his hands to his sides. He twisted his body to look at Ellen. “Is it supposed to hurt this much?” 

“What do you mean?”

“I thought that, once you figured it out, it’d be all sunshine, you know? You’d get a ring, a house, maybe a dog.” Dean touched his chest. “Not this, this _worry_ that doesn’t stop. This, this--” Dean cut off with a frustrated growl. 

Ellen walked out from behind the bar. She understood what Dean meant. She understood because she felt that indescribable emotion every time her husband left on a job. She understood more in some ways because one day her Bill did not come home. 

Dean sagged against Ellen when she hugged him. At that moment, he let himself cling to her just like he had as a boy. Back then, the worst thing he had to deal with was skinned knees and a few black eyes. Now, there was so much more weighing on him. Dean buried his face into Ellen’s hair, smelled the familiar scent of the soap she used, and let his tears fall. 


	36. Apotheosis

“Is Dean well?” Castiel asked.

Ellen walked behind the bar and dropped her cleaning cloth on the counter. “Why do you ask?”

“He’s been…” Castiel tapped his fingers on the bartop. “Subdued.” 

“I’m sure he’s just thinking about the journey back to the Capital.”

“I suppose. I should thank you for your hospitality.” 

“Don’t worry about it. You’re a friend of Dean’s and, well, most people would jump at the chance to help the Angel.”

Castiel stared down at his hands. “So you know.”

“Yeah. I’m not gonna ask where you’ve been the last few years.” Ellen leaned down to look Castiel in the eyes. “Just take care of yourself, okay?”

Sunlight filtered into the tavern when Dean opened the door. His travel pack, slung over his shoulders, bulged with new supplies and he held a basket in his hands filled with gifts from the Lawrence villagers. He set the basket in front of Ellen.

“Make sure you give those back when we’re gone,” Dean said. "Say I forgot it or something." 

Ellen nodded and grabbed the basket. She carried it to the back, leaving Dean and Castiel alone. 

“You ready?” Dean shrugged the pack off his shoulders and placed it at his feet, taking the stool next to Castiel.

“Yes,” Castiel said. “Are you?”

“I mean, I gotta be, right?”

“Dean.” Castiel touched Dean’s shoulder, waiting for him to look up from his lap before continuing, “You’ll return here someday.”

“I hope so,” Dean said. “Next time we’ll bring Sam.”

“And have some of Missouri’s pie.”

When Ellen returned from the back room and saw Dean's soft smile and Castiel run his hand down Dean’s arm before he let go, she realized there was at least one person who looked after Dean. 

⁂

Kevin scratched his pen across the paper, fast and frantic. The scholars in the library glanced over at the table with undisguised curiosity. Sam waved them away and they all hurried back to their tasks-- until he had to wave them away again a few minutes later.

After the king agreed to assist Kevin, he went straight to work. Sam was assigned as overseer and was quickly learning that, while Sam was a workhorse, he had nothing on Kevin. 

Kevin threw another page covered in his neat handwriting to the top of his growing pile. Before he could grab a new blank sheet, Sam reached across the table and stilled Kevin’s hand. Kevin snapped his head up, his eyes nearly lost in the dark shadows beneath them. 

“When was the last time you slept?” Sam asked. 

“Don’t know. Doesn’t matter.” Kevin reached for a new paper. Sam slapped his hand onto the stack and slid it out of his reach. Kevin glared. “The sooner I’m done, the sooner I get to my mom.”

“It won’t help much if you collapse first.” Sam picked up the finished pile and shuffled through the papers. “Besides, I can only read so fast. This’ll keep me busy enough for you to get some sleep.”

Kevin slumped in his chair and worried at his bottom lip. A few moments of contemplation later, Kevin agreed with Sam. Sam nodded to the guard at the library’s entrance to escort Kevin to his room. While the crown had agreed to assist Kevin, he was not trusted enough to wander the castle alone.

Once Kevin left, Sam began sorting through the completed pages. They were written as a narrative and, as soon as Sam started to read, he was relieved he presided over Kevin’s work. He saw his name, Dean’s, and even Castiel’s, in a dramatic retelling of their exploits. Some of it was accurate but far more of it was off base or completely made up. 

Sam felt a headache building as he read. It was an odd feeling to read about oneself, especially about things he knew said, but it was even stranger to realize the author had completely misunderstood his motivations. The Metatron did not understand his characters at all. Perhaps because they were not his characters, nor were their lives his story. The fates were their own.

Perhaps.

Other than the unsettling feeling that someone watched his life, there was not much useful information for Sam to share. Sam massaged his temples and sighed. He hoped for news about Dean, or knowledge about the Creatures but all Kevin gave him so far was an offbase retelling of Sam's own life. 

Sam tied the pages together then carried them to his table in the restricted section. He ignored his tiredness and sat down, continuing the perusal of his latest book. 

By the time Sam left the library, it was nearly empty. Sam took the familiar route back to his room, a journey easily made with his eyes half-closed, and knew he would collapse the moment he saw his bed. 

His eyes fully opened when he turned down the hall and heard footsteps near Dean’s room. Sam’s hand went to his belt, clutching the now familiar handle of Ruby’s knife, and stalked down the torch lit hallway with his back against the wall. Reaching the end of the hall, Sam saw one open door. It was not Dean’s room, but the one beside it. It was Castiel’s room. 

Castiel’s room had not been entered since he left it. Dean insisted. Sam knew better than to say anything about it. The fact that someone was in there, shuffling around, made the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand on end. 

Sam slid along the wall until he stood by the frame of the wide open door. He listened to the intruder’s light steps. He counted ten breaths before he burst into the room, knife in hand.

The individual standing in the room wore Kevin’s body but it was not Kevin. He turned around, his eyes gold and glowing, his back straight and head held high. Not a single hint of Kevin’s usual slouch and anxiety remained in his body. 

“Sam, hello! How nice to see you,” he said. “I feel like your plot’s been so minor lately.”

“Who are you?” Sam demanded. 

“Ah, yes. I am the Metaron.”

“What did you do to Kevin?”

“The prophet is fine. He’s having a very pleasant dream. I should warn you, if you use that knife of yours you’ll only damage the boy. I’m far, far away from here.”

The knife shook in Sam’s hands before he lowered it. “Why are you in here?”

“Curiosity. It’s musty in here, don’t you think?” The Metatron used Kevin’s arms to indicate the darkened room. “You think a castle would have better servants.”

“What do you want?”

The Metatron walked to the desk and ran a finger through the dust on the topmost book, the same book Dean used to fix the Captain’s zombie problem years ago. “I thought there’d be something in here, something that would tell me what makes you tick. I need to get into your heads.”

Sam winced, remembering what he read. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Did you read my manuscript? What did you think? Keep in mind it’s the first draft.”

“First--” Sam gripped the hair on top of his head. “What are you? How do you know all that stuff about us?”

“I know everything.” The Metatron grinned, the malevolent gleam behind it unfitting for Kevin’s face. “I’m God.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Don’t worry,” the Metatron said, closing in on Sam, “you will soon.”

The glow in Kevin’s eyes dissolved. Kevin dropped to the floor, fast asleep. 

⁂

The Captain stomped down the hall, his face reminiscent of a stormcloud. The two guards posted in front of Kevin’s door heard him long before he appeared. So did Sam. He ran past the guards, determined to intercept the Captain’s warpath. 

“Bobby. Bobby, wait!” Sam reached out with one arm to halt the Captain. “He’s just a kid.”

Captain Singer slowed his charge then came to a stop when he reached Sam. “He is a threat.”

“Kevin’s not,” Sam said, “but this Metatron guy might be.”

“And he-- what?--possesses this kid and wonders around our castle, learning all our weaknesses?” 

“Look,” Sam said, grabbing the Captain by the shoulders. “I talked to Kevin. He agreed to stay in his room. If he needs to leave, he’ll be escorted.”

“I need to be sure he’s not a security risk.”

“I know. Just remember Kevin’s human. He wants to help us.”

The Captain closed his eyes and took a deep, visible breath. He shrugged off Sam’s hands, then continued down the hall at a calmer pace. Sam followed him. When they reached the doorway, the guards on duty resolutely stared at the stone above the Captain's head. They opened the door at the Captain’s command. 

Sam slumped against the wall opposite the doors. He needed to go to work. He needed to research the Metatron and what he meant by calling himself God. Sam did not do that. He leaned against the wall. After carrying Kevin back to his room and calling the guards, Sam had no energy left.

He needed to sleep. 

The sound of the door slamming closed jerked Sam out of his thoughts. He stood up straight and met the Captain’s eyes.

“What do you think, Bobby?” Sam asked.

“I think--” The Captain sighed. “I think we could really use an Angel.”

⁂

The cot in Ash’s tent creaked when Sam dropped his entire weight into it. He stared straight ahead as Ash cleaned up, the cloth wall rippling in a gust of wind. The winds always picked up in the autumn.

Autumn. Dean left a season ago and there had not been any word. While Dean had been on long missions before, this was the first time Sam received no correspondence. Due to the secretive nature of the mission, Dean decided it was best not to send messages. Sam agreed. He did not expect the silence to be so difficult. 

“It’s my _professional_ opinion,” Ash said, “that you should get some sleep. Maybe take a day off.”

Sam laughed off the comment. “Wish I could, Ash.”

“Yeah, well.” Ash put away the last bottle. “You could at least start a couple hours later tomorrow.”

“But--”

Ash turned around and raised his hand to cut off Sam’s protest. “That’s an order. You’re making me pull rank here, dude. Very uncool.” 

“Fine.” Sam stood from the cot. “More time for research, then.”

“That’s not what I--”

Sam left the tent before Ash could finish his sentence. He walked with purpose from the healer’s enclosure. Usually, he headed to the library after his work with Ash but, instead, he headed to the blacksmith’s quarters.

The blacksmiths were heard before they were seen. The sound of hammers against metal rang down the path. During working hours, the noise rarely stopped. All the blacksmiths needed to complete as many weapons and pieces of armour as possible. The army was hungry for resources. 

“Hey, Charlie!” Sam shouted over the sound of a hammer hitting a sword on the anvil as he walked into Charlie’s shop, “I got your message. What’s up?”

Charlie looked up from her work with a bright and cheery smile. She gestured with her hammer to the corner of her shop. Sam blinked to adjust to the darkness in the building, then followed Charlie’s silent command. 

Dean leaned against the workbench, his grin cocky. “Heya, Sammy.”

Sam could not muster up any annoyance. “Dean-- You-- I--”

“I know, I know,” Dean said. “I look so good you’re at a loss for words.”

Sam crossed the shop and grabbed Dean. He wrapped his arms around his brother’s shoulders and held him tight. Dean gave as good as he got.

“Did you do it?” Sam asked when they pulled back. “Did you find him?”

Sam knew, from the slight smile on Dean’s face and the shine in his eyes, the answer.

“Where is he?” Sam asked.

⁂

“Where in the Realm have you been?” Captain Singer demanded.

“Not in the Realm,” Castiel said. “Purgatory is in a different dimension.” 

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious.” Castiel sighed. “This reaction is one of the many reasons I didn’t share all my knowledge.”

The Captain stopped his frantic pacing on the gold embroidered rug and chose an armchair, looking alarmed when he sank into the comfortable cushions. “But you’re going to now?”

Castiel sat on the edge of his armchair in the king’s sitting room, watching the closed doorway for any signs of movement. When Castiel arrived at the castle, his reception was less than stellar. Castiel never thought he would be bothered by someone not recognizing the Angel. If it was not for the Captain walking by on a routine patrol, Castiel would have ended up in the dungeons. 

That was what he got for insisting on going to the castle alone. Dean would be very smug. The only reason Castiel managed to leave without Dean was that he was eager to see his brother again. 

A knight entered the room. She stood at attention, her armour ill-fitting on her small frame. 

“Sir,” she said, “His Majesty is ready to see you now.”

“Good. Thank you, Barnes,” Captain Singer said.

Josephine Barnes indicated the two men follow her down the hall. She eyed Castiel with obvious curiosity as he exited the room. Though she was young of age, she was professional enough to not comment. However, she was young of age so she failed to hide the many glances she shot Castiel as they walked. 

“We’re here,” Josephine said. 

She nodded to the Captain and Castiel, then opened the door for them. She stayed behind and stood guard. 

They entered the king’s chambers. The king wanted to avoid any commotion about the Angel’s arrival, so he insisted on privacy. A warm fire illuminated the room, shining off the expensive dark wood of the desk. Papers, books, and inkblots covered most surfaces in the room, including the thick rugs and canopied bed. 

Setting down his quill, the king stood from his desk at the Captain’s and Castiel’s entrance. King Adam wore fine clothing but they were old and darned many times over with gold thread. His crown was not on his head.

“Castiel,” King Adam said, “you’re here. You’re timing is impeccable.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked.

“Have you heard about someone named Metatron?”

“I am…” Castiel dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword. He swallowed to keep his voice steady. “Familiar.”

“There was a break-in last night,” Captain Singer said. “Or not really a break-in. I’m not sure. There’s this kid and he got possessed or something. Never seen anything like it.”

“‘Kid?’ He’s human?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah,” the Captain said, “According to Sam, it was like this Metatron guy took him over.”

King Adam stepped in front of Castiel. He was still not as tall as Castiel but that fact no longer bothered him. He bowed his head in a humble plea. Castiel understood the significance.

“I need to see this ‘kid,’” Castiel said.

The king nodded to Captain Singer. With little delay, the Captian led Castiel to Kevin's room. Leaving the king behind, they hurried to the Angel’s wing. Under the Captain’s orders, Josephine joined them. 

The guards at Kevin’s door failed d to hide their surprise at the strange entourage approaching them. The Captain gave them an abridged explanation and, after a few short moments, Castiel entered Kevin’s room, alone. 

Kevin jumped up from his bed at the sudden intrusion, a cascade of papers falling to the floor. “Who--”

He calmed instantly. Kevin’s body crossed the small room, eyes bright gold in the dark. The Metatron smirked.

“Castiel,” the Metatron said. “It’s about time you showed up. I was starting to think you’d never return. Ugh, retirement would be so _boring._ ”

“Release the human, Metatron,” Castiel said.

“Why?” Can’t you just”-- the Metatron lowered his voice-- “ _Awaken_ me.”

Castiel crossed his arms, not backing away and not breaking eye contact. “You talk too much, Metatron. Are you ever going to do something?” 

“Oh, but I have. I’ve done a lot while you were running around in that forest.” The Metatron indicated the body he possessed. “Recently, I made a prophet.”

“A prophet?”

“Kevin here writes my words down as I did for our Father.” The Metatron tipped his chin, all his teeth bared in a self-satisfied smile. “After all, God needs His Scribe.”

“You’re not God.”

“I’m not? But, Castiel, I can do this.”

The Metatron raised Kevin’s hand, the skin crackling with golden lightning. With an open palm, the Metatron hit Castiel in the centre of his chest. The impact knocked him off his feet and launched him into the door behind him. The wood cracked and splintered, scratching Castiel’s face as he burst through. He stopped when he hit the stone wall in the hallway, hard. Slumping down the wall and breathing hard, Castiel glanced up at the confused guards still by the broken door.

Kevin’s body stepped over the door’s wreckage, casually waving a hand at the guards. They-- along with the Captain-- all stopped in their tracks, some with weapons in hand, others mid-run. The Metatron gave them no attention, choosing instead to stand over Castiel and look down upon him.

“Watching you has taught me so much. To think I can do all this from some human’s body,” the Metatron said. “In person, I can do so much more! I’m so glad you took down Hell for me. It’s allowed me to _focus_.” 

“I didn’t do that for you,” Castiel said, fighting to find purchase for his feet to stand.

“Oh, but you have done so much for me. You got rid of those pesky Demons and those mutinous Levithan. You even made my Creatures stronger. Well done, Castiel. You really are my greatest warrior.”

“No, no. I didn’t-- I couldn’t--” Castiel reached for his sword, leaning heavily against the wall as he struggled to his feet. “I was against you!”

“Were you, though?” 

Castiel never unsheathed his sword. He gave up on trying to stand, sinking to the floor under the weight of Metatron’s words. Castiel’s head ached, his body was bruised, and his mind raced through the events of the last years-- or all his life.

“So, _Angel_ ,” the Metatron sneered, crouching to leer over Castiel, “think you’re a saviour now?”

There was one thing-- one thing-- the Metatron forgot. That one thing stared up at him, his eyes bright blue.

“I was never a saviour,” Castiel said, “and I am not your puppet.” 

“You’ve been following my plot all this time, Castiel!” The Metatron came closer to Castiel. Close enough. “You will--”

Slapping both hands to either side of the Metatron's stolen head, Castiel gathered every last vestige of power within him and commanded, “Awaken!”

Castiel’s light filled the castle, flowing through every room, every hallway, every garden. Every human closed their eyes.


	37. Master of Fate

Dean’s footsteps echoed through the castle, fast and urgent. Sam hurried after Dean, apologetically smiling at the guards they barreled past. 

“I swear when we get there, I’m gonna--”

Dean muttered his way across the castle. Sam knew better than to stop Dean when he was on the warpath. Thankfully, the guards did, too. After all, most of them were trained by Dean. Left alone, Sam and Dean made it to Castiel’s room in record time.

Captain Singer waited by the door. He provided his best explanation for what happened. Sam listened because he could feel Dean vibrating beside him, not comprehending a single word. 

“Alright,” the Captain concluded, “I’m gonna check on that Kevin kid, then report to the king, then--” He threw up his hands. After ordering Josephine to stand guard, he walked away.

Continuing his grumbling, Dean opened the door. When he saw Castiel sitting up in his bed under the blanket, Dean’s tension dissolved. He stopped and stood in the doorway, staring. Sam pushed Dean to move further into the room, then dragged the desk chair toward the bed. Dean sat on the foot of Castiel’s bed.

“You’re an idiot,” Dean said by way of greeting.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, unfazed. He turned to Sam. “Sam. You grew.”

“And you…” Sam placed his elbows on his knees and rested his chin in his hands. “You look the same, actually.”

Castiel rubbed his chin. “Do I?”

Sam grinned. “Yeah.”

“Cas.” Dean rested a hand over Castiel’s knee. “What were you thinking? Haven’t I told you--”

“Dean,” Castiel said, the determined note in his voice about to break. “Not right now, please.”

Dean did not reply. He did not remove his hand, nor did he look away. Sam glanced between the two of them, feeling much like a ghost. 

“What happened?” Dean asked. 

“I have learned that I am not the master of my fate,” Castiel said.

“Fate?” Dean scoffed. “There’s no such thing as fate.”

“So I thought.”

Sam straightened. “Hold on. Bobby said that you spoke to that Metatron guy.”

“He did?” Dean interrupted.

Sam ignored him. “And he said something about Scribes.”

Castiel groaned and clutched at his chest when he turned to better see Sam. He waved away Dean's helping hand. 

“Go on,” Castiel said.

“I’ve been working with Kevin,” Sam said, “and he’s been writing on and on every day.”

“About what?” Castiel asked.

“Us. It was about Hell and everything that happened.” Sam stood, pacing around the room as he spoke, working through his thoughts out loud. “I found Kevin here last night but it wasn’t him. It was Metatron. He said something about a manuscript.” Sam stopped in the middle of the room. He stared at Dean.

“What?” Dean asked when Sam said nothing else.

“I need to go to the library.”

“Wha--”

Sam was gone before Dean finished. He heard Castiel’s mutter a few words but did not stay to hear them. The castle was quiet and subdued, yet a current of energy flowed through it. The energy was something people had not felt in a long, long time: hope. After the incident with the Metatron, everyone knew the truth.

The Angel had returned in their hour of need.

When Sam entered the library, he found the expected scholars and initiates, immersed in their afternoon tasks. As Sam passed by, their eyes turned to him, shining with questions. Evidently, Frank told them to remain quiet as not one person spoke.

Like any other day, Sam entered the restricted section. Unlike any other day, someone was at his desk.

Kevin’s pen flew across the paper before him. Pages upon pages surrounded him, some blank, some scribbled with black ink. He wore the black robes of the early initiates, a fact which must have allowed him to sneak through the castle undetected. He did not look up at Sam’s arrival. He did not look up when he knocked a book off the desk and it landed with a hollow thump. He did not look up for anything. 

“Kevin?” Sam stood across from him, their bodies separated by the desk. “Kevin. Why are you here?”

“Need to finish this,” Kevin said, his pen never slowing as he spoke. “I can’t hear him anymore. Need to finish. Need to finish while I remember. Need to finish to save my mom.”

A paper fluttered to the floor when Kevin reached for a blank page. Sam caught it and glanced at the rushed handwriting on the page.

“This-- this is--” Sam scanned over the page again, to make sure. “This is new. I don’t recognize anything here but it says I--”

“That’s because it hasn’t happened yet.” Kevin looked up. “It’s fate.”

⁂

Castiel could not walk down the hallways without inciting whispers wherever he went. While he would much rather remain in his room, he answered the king’s summons. He answered them each time upon the first call over the past week. 

He still kept his sword wrapped. He still wore nondescript armour. He still found it difficult to hear someone call him the Angel.

But he let them. The humans seemed to need it. Castiel wanted to shout that he was the reason they were in their current predicament, that he was the reason that the Long War took such a dark turn. However, he knew the humans needed hope and, when they needed hope, they called him the Angel. 

The throne room was converted into a war room. The Throne of Gold stood empty over the long table at its base. Sam, Dean, Captain Singer, and the king were already in their seats when Castiel arrived.

“How’re you doing?” Dean asked when Castiel slipped into the seat beside him.

“Fine,” Castiel said.

Dean did not look convinced. He was about to speak when Sam stood, a large stack of papers in his hands.

“Kevin says this is all he’s got,” Sam said. 

“You, ah,” Dean said, eyeing the stack, “have a short version?” 

“Fine.” Sam rolled his eyes. “What it boils down to is that, by the summer, we’ll all be wiped out.”

The words had the intended effect. Everyone leaned forward, waiting to hear more. Sam remained silent.

“Do you wanna elaborate?” Dean asked.

“You wanted the short version,” Sam said.

“Ugh! Point taken. Tell us more.”

“So get this.” Sam removed the bottommost page from the stack. “Metatron plans to gather up all the monsters and attack every human settlement at once, then, when our army is spilt up and distracted trying to save them, every last Celestial will”-- Sam cleared his throat and read directly from the page-- “‘descended upon the unsuspecting Capital, moving into every home, every room, and finally, the castle. The Celestials marched down the hallway and...’” 

Captain Singer hit the table with both hands. “And?” 

“Don’t know,” Sam said, returning to his seat, “there’s no ending.”

“What a rip,” the Captain muttered.

“No ending,” King Adam said. “Does that mean anything?”

“According to Kevin,” Sam answered, “his connection to Metatron is gone. Maybe he just wasn’t able to hear it.” 

“So, what?” Dean crossed his arms behind his head and relaxed into his chair. “It’s just a bunch of words. Metatron probably just gave up when he got bored or whatever.” 

“Look. I’ve read the whole thing. He knows what happened to us-- as kids and up ‘till now.” 

“Okay. And what does it say we do today?”

“Well, he didn’t write about today. He actually wrote, uh, that Kevin-- or him as Kevin-- knocked Cas out flat. Cas isn’t even mentioned again until pages later.”

“See? Just words.”

“But--”

King Adam raised a hand, cutting the brother's argument off. “Is this going anywhere?” When the Winchesters shot him identical contrite expressions, he continued, “I need to know if these papers are of any use.”

“And I need to get back to work sometime today,”’ the Captain said.

“I think we should consider it,” Sam said.

“I think…” Dean gave an exaggerated shrug.

Every face turned to Castiel. It had not escaped their notice that Castiel remained silent through the whole exchange. He never spoke much in any meeting but, when he did, people listened.

“You’re both right.” The confused glances from Sam and Dean and the skeptical eyebrows from the king and the Captain told Castiel he would need to explain his reasoning. “Metatron is the the Voice of God or, more accurately, His Scribe. Metatron writes God’s word. God is omnipotent: he sees everything that was and everything that will be. Metatron is not and does not.” Castiel reached across the table for the papers, leafing through them. “Metatron pretends to be God and God writes prophecy. Therefore, these papers are what he _thinks_ will happen.”

There was a moment of quiet, broken by Sam’s sharp intake of breath. “If that what he thinks will happen--”

Dean thumped his fist on the table. “--then we gotta make sure it doesn’t.”

“Precisely,” Castiel said. “Humans are famed for their free will. I suggest you use it.” 

“How’re we gonna do that?” the Captain asked.

“We prepare for one last War,” King Adam said, “and take the fight to Metatron.”

“Take the fight to Metatron?” Dean balked. “Your Majesty, you _do r_ emember that he’s in Heaven, which is hidden in the sky?”

“I am aware.” King Adam folded his hands in front of him and focused on Castiel. “There must be a way in.”

“I would fly,” Castiel said, “but I have no wings.”

“What? There’s no other way?” Dean asked. “Like, some kind of stairway to Heaven?”

“No.” Castiel squinted at Dean. “Why would there?”

“Wait,” Sam said. “You literally fly to Heaven?”

“Well, I don’t but--” Castiel's lips twitched the slightest amount.

Only Dean caught the movement. “What? You--” Dean exhaled and dropped his chin to his chest. “Damn it.” 

The Captain sighed. “Care to share with the rest of us?” 

In a tone dripping with every ounce of distaste he felt, Dean answered, “Balthazar.”

“Balthazar!” Sam’s chair skid across the floor when he jumped up, slamming both hands on the table. “You mean the Balthazar who stabbed me? That Balthazar?”

Dean snapped his fingers and pointed. “That’s the one.”

“Hold on,” the Captain said, “stabbed you?”

Sam ignored him. “And he’s gonna help us?”

“I mean...” Dean shifted in his seat and crossed his arms tightly against his chest. “I wouldn’t have found Cas without him.” 

With a deep, stabilizing, breath Sam returned to his chair. He looked at Castiel. “Will he help us?”

“Yes,” Castiel said.

“May I ask who this Balthazar is?” the king asked.

“An old friend of mine--”

Dean picked at his fingernails and muttered, unhead, “Friend. Sure.”

“--and an excellent Celestial warrior,” Castiel finished.

“Sounds like an ally we’ll want.” King Adam steepled his fingers. “Is there anyone else who could help us? Anyone we should add to the table?”

“Aaron did a damn good job while Dean was out,” the Captain said, “and Pamela’s group saved more people than I can count.” 

“I say Kevin,” added Sam. “We promised we’d help his mom and his work is the reason we made it this far.”

“I’ll consider it.” The king nodded. “Anyone else?”

Dean licked his lips. “Uh, well, there’s one more but it’s going to take some explaining.” 

“Really? What’s their name?”

“Her name’s Lenore,” Dean said, “and she’s a vampire.”

⁂

Once the throne room doors were shut behind him, Dean stretched his arms over his head. “That was the longest meeting of my life.”

“Longest so far,” Sam said. “I’m sure there will be a lot more that are a lot longer soon.”

“Yeah.” Dean let his arms fall to his sides and headed down the hallway with Sam, out of the guard’s earshot. “I guess that’s what happens when you have less than a year to plan and execute a battle.” 

“You think we can do it?”

“Well, it’s either that or we’re wiped out.” Dean rolled his head to the side, giving Sam a lopsided grin. “I like option one.”

“Fair enough.”

“So, while Cas and the others chat it up, did you wanna grab some grub?”

“I would. I would, really but--”

Dean cut Sam off with a raised hand. “Jessica.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

“Alright, alright. Have fun.” Dean waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Dean laughed his way down the hall, leaving Sam to pull an exacerbated face with no one to see it. Sam threw up his hands, then headed to the castle gardens.

Many people took advantage of the last days of warm sunlight, walking and resting in the gardens during their few free moments. Red and yellow leaves covered the ground and the sun shone off the still pond. Sam sat on the bench and closed his eyes, grateful for the crisp air after spending all day in the throne room. 

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” 

Sam opened his eyes, seeing Jessica standing before him with the sun behind her head. She still wore her maid’s uniform, her blonde hair was half out of her bun, and she had a streak of soot across her forehead. Sam matched her smile as he beheld the wonderful sight before him. 

“It’s been a long day,” Sam said.

“Same here,” Jessica said, sitting next to Sam. “I guess we were both late.”

“It worked out.” Sam wiped away the soot on Jessica’s face. “You were busy, too.”

“Yeah. Becky needed to see her brother, so I covered for her.”

“Oh? Is everything okay?”

Resting his head against the back of the bench, Sam listened to Jessica talk about her day and the people in the castle. Sam spent his days interacting with the scholars and soldiers, but Jessica knew the common people. They were the people behind the scenes-- the cleaners, the cooks, the caretakers-- who kept the Capital running. Jessica was friends with everyone and she always gave Sam the perspective he needed. 

All those people were important. All those people were in danger. In less than a year's time, all those people could be gone. 

Jessica could be gone.

“You look serious,” Jessica said. “What’s up?”

Sam reached into his pocket. He had been carrying an important item around every day now, just in case. Now he knew he did not have a lot of time to wait. He left his seat and knelt in front of Jessica. 

“Sam? I-- You--”

“These past few months have been hard and you are the reason I pulled through.” Sam opened his hand, revealing his mother’s ring. “I want to do the same for you. I’m not gonna let this War consume us and I’m not gonna let it win. When this War ends-- and it will end-- I swear I will come home to you. Jessica Moore, will you join me in the bonding ceremony? Will you honour me with the privilege of becoming your husband?”

Speechless, Jessica held a hand over her mouth. She nodded then presented her left hand to Sam. As soon as he slid the ring onto her finger, she grabbed Sam and pulled him into her arms. 

That moment solidified Sam’s conviction. He would not let the Metatron win. He would not lose the Long War. He had to live on and come home to Jessica.

He was the master of his own fate.


	38. A Wing and a Prayer

Andrea’s Tavern was exactly as Castiel remembered it, right down to the wear patterns on the tables. The building was still filled with off-duty soldiers. The rafters still rattled with the patron’s songs. There was nothing different after five years. There was nothing different, except for one thing.

When Castiel sat in his preferred seat, he did not have to wait for a drink. A glass of whiskey materialized in front of him without having to say a word. He looked up to see Jamie wink at him before she moved on to the next customer. 

The instant Castiel finished his first drink, another one appeared. This time, Jamie stuck around.

“Thank you,” Castiel said. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah I do,” Jamie said. “Boss’s orders.”

“I heard you were the boss now.”

“Exactly!” Jamie produced a clean shot glass from under the bar then poured herself a drink. “Just keeping with tradition.”

She downed the liquid, banging her glass on the bar when she was done. Castiel did the same in solidarity. Jamie refilled both their drinks.

“You know,” Jamie said, “Benny has a whole shelf for you.

“A whole shelf?”

“Yep. Still got a bunch on it. You better keep coming so we can finish it off.”

“I should pay you.”

“Oh, no. First rule of Andrea’s Tavern’-- she lowered her voice into a passable impression of Benny’s accent-- “the chief drinks for free.” 

“Not bad,” Castiel said. “He told you that?”

Jamie grinned. “First day. Best job I ever had. Best _boss_ I ever had. When he told me he was going away I didn’t think I had a job let alone the whole freaking tavern.”

Castiel raised his glass. “To Benny?”

“To Benny.” Jamie clinked her glass against Castiel’s with a smile. 

They knocked their glasses against the bartop. Castiel refused her offer of a new one and continued to his original goal: the roof.

Crickets chirped as night fell upon the Captial, still warm with the last vestiges of summer. Castiel leaned against the chimney, watching the stars blink to life and the candles flicker in the residents’ windows. He remembered thinking that human life passed so quickly but he never thought they would end in just a few seasons.

Castiel had not prayed in decades. He still remembered how. He pressed his palms together and sent one to the All-Father. Castiel doubted He listened but it was worth a try. The humans needed all the help in the Realm-- and beyond-- if they were to end the Long War. 

He sent out another prayer, a personal one he could never forget. It flowed from him, like it always had. He never thought he would use it again. The instant he finished, Castiel heard the sound of wings.

“Hey,” Balthazar said, sitting directly beside Castiel, “I wasn’t expecting your call so soon.”

“Metatron plans to wipe out humanity,” Castiel said.

Silent for a few seconds, Balthazar finally answered in a careful tone, “I know.”

It was not a surprise to hear it. Castiel nodded then turned his head toward Balthazar, who sat close but not close enough to touch Castiel. Castiel checked him over, searching for any marks of mortality. None yet but it had only been a month at most. Balthazar‘s appearance was the same as always, if a little stressed. He wore his stress around his eyes. Most people read it as condescension, but Castiel knew the truth.

“How much do you know?” Castiel asked.

“Not much, really,” Balthazar said. “I know the Metatron’s ready to end the War. He calls it his ‘Grand Finale,’ whatever that means.”

“A lot of death.” Castiel lolled his head back and sighed. “Why is he doing all this?”

“He wants to bring the All-Father back.”

“What?”

“That’s what he told us, after you, um, left. It’s why all of Heaven backs him.”

“I don’t understand how destroying humanity achieves that.” 

“Maybe he thinks he's following in dear ol’ dad’s footsteps? God always loved a good story.” Balthazar shrugged. “I don’t really get it. It’s why I left.”

“Is it? You’ve never been a humanity fan.”

“No, but I’m a _me_ fan. If the Metatron doesn’t get what he wants, who’s to say he’ll stop at humans.”

“Self-preservation, then.”

Balthazar pursed his lips. He rubbed his hands together and cast a sidelong glance Castiel’s way. Castiel watched the stars with heavy eyelids, wondering if the Metatron looked down upon him. He did not see Balthazar’s stare.

“Yeah,” Balthazar said, “that’s why.”

“You know,” Castiel said, still looking up at the stars, “I met with the king today. I told them that they should defy fate but I…”

Balthazar hugged one of his knees to his chest. “But you what?”

“Metatron told me that everything I’ve done has been his plan. I thought I was defying fate but now I wonder.”

“Fate? Now that doesn’t sound like the Cassie I know.”

“If it’s true then all of this-- the stronger Creatures, the lack of opposition from the Demons-- is my fault. All this time I’ve been trying to help the Realm. If what Metatron said is true, then I’m the reason they’re dying.”

For a long while, the shout of drunks coming in and out of the tavern was all that was heard.

Brows knit together, Balthazar opened and closed his mouth a few times before he said, “Wow, I was wrong. You have changed.”

“I have?” Castiel asked.

“You’re not so ruthless these days.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“No, it’s just rather, well, human.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You know, I think you should.” Balthazar barked out a laugh. “I never thought I’d say that.”

Castiel flashed a tired, half-hearted smile. “Perhaps you have changed as well.” 

“Maybe. Don’t worry about what the Metatron said, Cassie. He was very, very pissed about you leaving. That was not part of his so-called plan. He’s not that good of an actor.”

“I see.” Castiel hummed. “Very, very pissed you say?”

“ _Very_.”

“Good.”

“Now, why’d you really call me here? I doubt you just wanted to reminisce.”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s a stairway to Heaven?”

⁂

Reports, after reports, after reports. Dean’s days had become nothing more than a constant stream of reports, broken up by a few training drills for the greenhorns. Even with help from Adam and Pamela, Dean’s stack of paperwork was so large he ended up taking it back to his room to work on it by candlelight. 

A knock on the door broke his concentration. His pen left a long smear of ink across the page. Thankfully, nothing important was lost. Dean took that as a sign he should call it a day on the paperwork. He stretched his arms over his head, making his shoulders pop. 

“It’s open,” Dean called. 

Castiel entered the room. “You’re still awake.”

“So are you.” Dean twisted in his chair and rested his chin on the backrest to look at Castiel. “What’s up?”

Castiel did not answer. Instead, he crossed the room and dropped onto Dean’s bed. Dean waited for more but nothing happened. He shrugged and returned to packing up his day’s work.

After he finished, he carried his candle over to the bedside table. On top of the blanket still wearing his sword, Castiel was fast asleep. Dean debated his options. He could wake Castiel, remind him that he had his own room and send him there. However, once he saw Castiel’s sleeping face, Dean could not do it. The lines on Castiel’s forehead and mouth had smoothed-- he carried around so much tension during the day-- and Dean knew Castiel rarely slept. No, waking Castiel was not an option. For a moment, Dean considered using Castiel’s room but he did not want to do that. 

Maybe it was a flimsy rationalization-- maybe he hardly tried-- but Dean turned down the covers on the other side of the bed, blew out the candle, and settled in to sleep.

To Dean’s surprise, he felt completely relaxed and comfortable. He expected at least some nervousness but all he felt was peace. Ever since he returned to the castle, Dean usually tossed and turned for an hour or more before he could rest. He figured he spent too long on the road, too long listening for threats around every corner, and had to remind himself he was safe in the castle.

Now, he finally understood the source of his sleep problems. The nights he spent on the road were beside someone, beside Castiel, and Dean became used to his presence. Dean knew he would be safe with Castiel at his side. The sound of Castiel’s breathing-- knowing he was there, knowing he was okay-- was what lulled Dean into a restful sleep. 

Dean did not remember his pleasant dream because, when he awoke, all he knew was that he was alone.

⁂

Castiel had not intended to fall asleep. When he saw the light under Dean’s door, Castiel figured he would make a report. Dean would want to know Balthazar agreed to help right away. Once he lay in the bed, however, Castiel’s exhaustion won. He had not slept since he returned to the castle. He had so much work to complete. Something about being in Dean’s room, about having Dean nearby, made it possible for Castiel to rest.

In the morning, Castiel opened his eyes to see Dean facing him with his body curved towards Castiel as he slept. One of Dean’s hands lay in the middle of the bed, as if he tried to reach out but stopped halfway through. Castiel stared at that hand for a long time. 

Something stirred within Castiel's chest, something unfamiliar yet known, when he raised his gaze to Dean’s face. He did not put a name to it. He did not believe he should. All he knew was that Dean should wake up alone.

It was oddly difficult for Castiel to make that happen.

After he cleaned himself up, Castiel headed out into the early morning sunlight. He thought he would visit the gardens but the trees and pond reminded him too much of recent events. At least, that was how he rationalized why his heart had not stopped racing since he woke up.

He decided to move on. He considered heading to the dining hall, but he still did not require nourishment and he did not want to waste supplies. He saw the stables but he did not want to upset the horses with his strange mood. He wandered the castle grounds, unable to choose a direction. 

He ended up in the training grounds. The place had not changed much from what Castiel remembered. There were just a few more archery targets and more open spaces for group drills. In the early morning, only a few people were present so Castiel was able to keep his distance from any potential admirers. 

The training dummy stared at him, the cloth stretched over its misshapen head frayed and ripped from countless trainees' swords. Castiel had no desire to attack it. He had engaged in enough violence.

Dragging a freshly-emptied cart behind her, Charlie halted when she saw a man staring at a training dummy like it just insulted his honour. She pushed the cart to the side and approached Castiel, making sure he could see her in his peripheral vision. Charlie learned a long time ago to never startle a warrior. 

“Hi,” Charlie said. “Did that old dummy say something mean?”

“I would be concerned if it started speaking.” Castiel squinted at the dummy like he was waiting for it to do just that.

“Yeah. That would mean Ash gave you the wrong stuff.” Charlie tapped her chin. “Or the _right_ stuff.”

Castiel faced Charlie, turning the same scrutinizing stare he gave the training dummy on her. “I don’t recognize you. Are you new?”

“What? I’ve been smithing swords and lugging them over here for three years now!” Charlie pointed to the cart. “I’m the one who should be asking if you’re new.” 

“I am old. Very, very old.” Castiel stood at attention with his hands clasped behind his back. “But you’re correct. Forgive me, I’m used to people knowing me before I know them. My name is Castiel.”

Charlie stilled, her eyes in danger of bulging out of her head. She stayed that way long enough for Castiel to worry that he said something wrong. Finally, she moved, taking a few scuffing steps toward Castiel and stopping when he backed away.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just that--” She clasped her hands together over her chest, her arms jutting out like wings, and visibly forced herself to calm down. “You’re Cas! I’m so stoked to finally meet you.”

Castiel blinked. Blinked again. It took him a moment to process that he did, in fact, hear his name. His nickname. “Meet… me?”

“Yeah! You know Sam’s all, ‘Cas did this, Cas did that.’ And Dean--” Charlie unclasped her hands and twirled a loose strand of hair around her finger. “Well, I think he--”

“Charlie!” Dean shouted from the training grounds entrance, hurrying to join the other two. “How’s it going? I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“That’s ‘cause you never visit me,” Charlie said. “I’ve been chained to the anvil making all that equipment _you_ ordered.” 

“I know, I know.” Dean threw an arm around Charlie’s shoulders. “Trust me, we’re gonna need it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Charlie flexed her arm. “All this hammering’s making me buff. The ladies love that. Well, I better get started on next month’s gear.” She smiled at Castiel and waved. “Nice meeting you, Cas!”

Castiel returned the wave, his arm stiff at his side. Dean grinned as she left, rolling her cart out the entrance and down the long path back to her shop.

“She seems kind,” Castiel said.

“She’s a good friend.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck then made a point of meeting Castiel’s eyes. “You must’ve been tired last night.”

“I suppose I was.” Castiel tilted his head. “You must have been tired as well.”

“Guess so.”

The something in Castiel’s chest surged and threatened to burst when Dean brushed a hand across Castiel’s cheek. When Castiel looked down at that hand, Dean jerked back. 

“You, ah, you had a bit of dirt,” Dean said.

“I see,” Castiel said, though he did not. He was certain he cleaned up properly that morning. 

“A-anyway!” Dean pointed to the weapon racks behind Castiel. “I got some drills to torture a bunch of trainees with in less than an hour, so I was gonna check the gear.”

“I can help you, if you wish.”

“Suit yourself.”

The work passed quickly and quietly. Dean started at one end and Castiel at the other. Neither spoke, both consumed by their own thoughts. Dean cursed his inability to keep his feelings in check; Castiel tried to understand his reaction to Dean’s touch. 

As time passed, the training grounds began to fill. Knights led trainees to archery ranges and practice dummies. A large group gathered around Dean, taking their weapons with a grateful nod and settling themselves into organized rows. The trainees stood at attention as they waited for Dean’s orders. Some of the trainees eyed Castiel, curiosity shining in their eyes, but they were disciplined enough to not speak out of turn. Castiel hung back, watching the proceedings from the weapon racks. 

Dean held his hands behind his back and walked up and down the rows of his students, stopping every so often to peer into a trainee's face. He let them sweat then moved on. He returned to the front of the group. For a long, silent, moment Dean stared them down, a severe expression on his face.

He let the students sweat a little bit more, then broke out into a grin. “At ease.” The order was followed by a flurry of movement. “Nice job, all. Not one person broke. Unlike last time.” Dean whipped around, pointing a finger at a young girl in the front row. “No naming names, _Krissy Chambers_.”

“Screw you, Sir Winchester!” shouted Krissy, amusement in her voice.

A current of laughter ran through the group. Dean raised his hands in defeat. 

“You’re lucky I’m not the Captain,” Dean said. “Just for that, I’m gonna make you do my hardest drills.”

Without a word of complaint, the group drew their swords. The sound of metal rang over the training grounds. Dean held true to his word. He led his students through a gruelling trial, forcing them to run over the same actions over and over again until they could replicate it perfectly.

Sweat shone on the trainees' faces, their chests heaved with panting breaths, and their swords shook in their hands as they laboured under the sun. None complained, none gave up, none stopped until Dean gave the order. The trainees sagged in relief.

“Where,” Krissy said between deep breaths, “did you come up with that?”

“An old friend.” Dean cast a glance Castiel’s way, a smile on his face. “Don’t worry. I hated it too.” 

Dean dismissed his students. Most hurried back to the castle once they stored their equipment, eager to grab some lunch and water from the dining hall. Others stayed behind for further independent training or to ask Dean questions. Dean answered every one with patience.

“As I recall,” Castiel said, joining Dean after the last trainee walked away, “ _hated_ was not the word you used.”

Dean chucked. “I said a lot of words. I bet that was one of them.”

“I suppose it was somewhere in between your many colourful curses,” Castiel said. “I didn’t realize my lessons made such an impact.”

“Yeah, well, when you learn from the best you gotta pass it on.” Dean ducked his head, hiding his face. He cleared his throat. “It’s lunchtime. Wanna grab some grub and see if we can sit for more than thirty seconds before someone needs our help?”

“I still don’t need to eat.”

“I know! Come along anyway. We’ll get you some apple cider.” 

“Isn’t it still early for that?”

Dean rolled his eyes. When he walked away, Castiel followed him. Perhaps Castiel finally figured out that all Dean wanted was his company. 

⁂

“Dean. Dean? Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean!”

Cut off in the hallway by Sam on his way to his room after a long, long, _long_ day, Dean heaved a put-upon sigh. “Dude, what?”

“I thought I could wait but I can’t!” Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulders. “I gotta tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Dean asked. “C’mon, man, it’s been a long--”

“I proposed.”

Dean opened and closed his mouth a few times. The joy in Sam’s smile never wavered as he waited for a response. 

Dean finally managed to squeak out a faint, “You proposed?”

“Yes!”

“To Jessica?”

“Yes!”

“And she _agreed_?”

“Yes!” Sam lowered his eyebrows. “Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?

Dean cradled Sam’s face between his hands. He looked at Sam. He looked at Sam’s long, shaggy hair he did not cut. He looked at Sam’s puppy dog eyes that could make most people do what he needed with little more than a glance. He looked at the way Sam’s back curved as he bent down to Dean’s height because Sam did not get the memo that he was supposed to be the _little_ brother. 

But he was Dean’s little brother. He was Dean’s little brother, who could heal a soldier's wound, could research any problem, and could use his knife when he needed it. Dean looked at his little brother-- his little brother who was engaged-- and remembered he was not just his little brother. He was Sam.

“When did you grow up?” Dean asked, his voice cracking. He pulled Sam in under his chin like he did when they were younger and tried to blink away the tears in his eyes. “Congratulations.”

They separated. Both of them sniffed and wiped their eyes, looking at the floor rather than each other. Once they recovered, Dean wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and led him down the hall to their rooms.

The candles in Sam’s room were mere stubs by the time they went to bed. Dean and Sam talked most of the night away. There was a lot to talk about.

They had a ceremony to plan, after all.


	39. The Present

Everyone stood upon King Adam’s entrance. The king took his place at the head of the war room table. When he sat, the rest of the group followed. He nodded to Pamela, Aaron, and Kevin. 

“Welcome.” He noticed the empty chair beside Castiel. “We seem to be missing one.”

“And for once it isn’t me,” Dean said from his place on the other side of Castiel. 

Sitting across from Dean, Sam yawned.

“We boring you, Sam?” Captain Singer asked from the end of the table.

“No,” Sam said, “Jess has been keeping me up, is all.”

“Keeping you up?” Aaron turned in his seat and put his chin in his hands, batting his eyes at Sam. “Is that so?”

Sam and Dean levelled two perfectly synced glares at Aaron. Pamela snorted but instantly quieted when the Winchesters turned it on her. 

Captain Singer sighed. “Are we gonna get started or do I have to listen to this?”

Pages of prophecy in hand and all around him, Kevin never reacted to the conversation. He read the words over and over, scribbling out notations and adding others every few seconds. He never stopped.

Like Kevin, Castiel paid little attention to what was happening around him. He watched the empty chair, waiting for something to happen, hoping his plan had worked.

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam. Sam replied with an upward tilt of his chin. Dean responded with a wide smile. 

“I don’t know, Bobby, I think you’ll wanna hear this,” Dean said. 

“The reason I didn’t get much sleep.” Sam said, “is that Jess and I are planning a ceremony.”

“A ceremony?” Pamela leaned forward to see past Aaron to Sam. “A _bonding_ ceremony?”

“That’s right.”

Pamela let out a delighted gasp. “Little Sammy’s getting hitched!”

A whole host of congratulations followed. Captain Singer was the loudest of all. The king smiled, finding no reason to end the celebration and begin their meeting. Everyone needed a chance to revel in good news, himself included. 

While everyone was distracted, the missing member appeared. Alongside him was an anticipated guest. 

“Wow-ee. What’s got y’all so happy?”

All activity ceased. Pamela and Aaron whipped around, both crying out, “Garth!”

Garth offered a wave. “How y’all been?”

“How are you here?” Captain Singer grabbed Garth’s shoulders, eyes shining as he watched Garth smile.

“Oh, you know, you get a little werewolf bite and then suddenly you're the representative for a whole village of Awakened Creatures.” 

Once everyone returned to their seats, the conversation continued, with Garth asking and answering many questions. Everyone exchanged words, making sure each person had the pertinent information.

Completely ignored since he brought Garth, Balthazar rolled his eyes and took his seat beside Castiel. “You got any booze?”

“It’s still morning,” Castiel said.

“Since when did that matter?”

“It matters to the humans.”

“That’s a rule too?” Balthazar groaned. “I’m never gonna get this down.”

“You will.” Castiel pat Bathazar’s forearm. “You were always far more adaptable than me.”

Dean knew it was irrational but a dark, twisted strand of jealousy wrapped around his heart when he saw Castiel touch Balthazar. He tried to ignore it. Castiel had done nothing wrong, nor did Balthazar-- no matter what issues Dean had with him-- and it was not like Dean had any right to complain. It was good Castiel had a friend, someone who knew him as something other than the Angel, but Dean could not help but wish that someone was not Castiel’s ex-partner. Castiel's ex-partner who once tried to kill Sam.

“The real question,” the Captain said, drawing the rest of the group's attention, “is how we’re getting into Heaven in the first place.”

“That’s true,” King Adam said, delivering his comment to Balthazar, “that part hasn’t been explained yet.”

“Oh, you’ve noticed I’m here! Well done.” Balthazar flattened his palms against the table. “I _can_ get you into Heaven, but only two of you.”

“ _What_?” Captain Singer pounded the table with his fist and stood. “That place is crawling with enemies and you expect us to send two people? We’d be sending them to their deaths!”

“Three, actually. I’m the one flying there. Also, I haven’t finished.” Balthazar stared at the Captain until he sat down. “Kevin, darling, in all those mad ramblings you have there, does it say when the Metatron plans to sic his army on the humans?”

For the first time in the meeting, Kevin looked up from his papers. He stared for a moment, then stuttered out a few sounds before giving up and searching for a page in the middle of the stack. With a terse, “here,” Kevin handed it to Balthazar.

“You’re going to make me read this?” Balthazar held the edge of the page between two fingers, letting flap in the empty air. 

“Fine,” Kevin said. “I think the quote is ‘when day bleeds into night, it will be time to strike. By the time the sun falls from the sky, the deed will be done.’”

“That is terrible.” Balthazar threw the page. It fluttered to the middle of the table.

“Well, he did say it was the first draft,” Sam said. “It does tell us that they’ll attack in midsummer.” 

“Right,” Balthazar said, “so, if you attacked first-- say when the Metatron’s army descends upon a certain beach-- you’d have an advantage. And, if all those warriors are on the beach, Heaven will be a lot easier to infiltrate.” 

“Then we’ll have a clear path to the Throne. To Metatron.” Castiel laid a hand on Balthazar’s arm. “I must go there.”

Balthazar grinned. “I thought you’d say that.”

“If Cas is going then so am I,” Dean said. 

The war room became silent. Dean had not meant to speak aloud. The words forced themselves out of them before he could give it any thought. He did not take them back. The Captain looked across the table to the king. King Adam looked back. After a few moments of deliberation, the king nodded.

“Alright,” Captain Singer said, “this is the best plan we got. We have one winter to prepare. Pamela, Aaron, Dean: you three have to prepare the recruits, get them as ready as you can, and put a call out to any mercs in the area. We need all the help we can get.”

All three responded with, “Sir!”

“Sam,” King Adam said. “I want you to brief Ash and tell him to prepare as much medicine as he can and be ready for travel. Kevin, work with Frank to see if there is any more useful information in those writings.”

“Your Majesty,” Sam said. 

Kevin nodded.

“And, of course,” the king continued, glancing between Balthazar and Castiel, “we need as much help as you will offer.”

“Garth,” Captain Singer said, “is there anything your leader can give us?”

“I’m sure Miss Lenore will want to help. I’ll make sure she gets all this info.” Garth rubbed his chin. “Hey, do you think we should wear ribbons or something? That way you can tell we’re not the bad guys.” 

“You know, Garth,” Dean said, shaking his head, “sometimes I think you’re a genius.” 

“Aw, thanks.”

“There is one more topic I wish to discuss,” the king said. “Sam, would you like to hold your ceremony here?”

Sam could not hide his surprise. “Here?”

“Yes. I was thinking of using the ballroom before we convert it to a winter shelter. I think, if I’m sending my people into the hardest battle of their lives, they deserve at least one party first.”

“Thank you,” Sam said. “I’ll have to talk to Jess. It’s a little soon.”

“Well,” Dean said, “there’s no time like the present.” 

⁂

Jessica sighed. Her knees popped when she straightened from her crouch and her dirty hands left dark streaks across her apron. Hands on her hips, she inspected her work on the castle’s sitting room. Not a mote of dust survived her assault. Satisfied, she gathered her cleaning supplies, ready to return them and finish her shift, and stopped short when she saw who waited for her in the doorway of the room.

“You’re not Sam,” Jessica said.

“Sam got held up,” Dean said. “I figured, since you’re my future sister-in-law and all, I could come by.”

“Really?” Jessica raised an eyebrow. “Well, all I have to do is hand in my supplies. It's next door. After, you can walk me to my quarters.” 

“Sure,” Dean said, following her to the supply room. “Why does Sam walk you home every day, anyway?”

Jessica opened the door to the supply room. “First time we met I was hopelessly lost. He pointed me in the right direction.” She entered the room then returned with empty hands. Dean and Jessica headed for the castle's exit. “I can find my way now but, you know, this way I get to see him. He’s always so busy.”

“Sorry you’re stuck with me today,” Dean said.

“Oh, that’s alright. We’ve never really talked, have we?”

The cold, biting air nearly blew them off their feet when they opened the door to leave the castle. Jessica and Dean exchanged grimaces then, together, stepped onto the wet, muddy snow. 

“We’ve talked,” Dean said. “Remember? I was all ‘where’s my brother?’”

“Yeah, I don’t think that counts,” Jessica said.

“Probably not.” 

The sticky late fall snow clung to Dean’s boots as they walked. Jessica flashed a polite smile each time Dean glanced her way. She did not seem offended when Dean failed to continue the conversation.

“So, Dean,” Jessica said. “What do you do for fun?”

Dean blanked. What did he do for fun? He cut down on his drinking. In fact, he had not stepped into a tavern since he returned to the Capital. He no longer took strange bodies home. He did not have the desire. The fact that those were the two so-called hobbies he thought about said something on its own.

All he really did was work.

“Work,” Dean said, “then work and then some more work.”

“That doesn’t sound like a hobby. I was thinking something like painting like me, or reading like Sam.”

“Reading _is_ work for Sam.”

“Not the stuff about dragons.”

Dean snorted. “I’ll have to remember that for later.”

“Let me know if you come up with some good lines. I’m running out.”

They crossed the gardens. A fallen branch, buried under a pile of blackened snow, caused Jessica to stumble. Dean grabbed Jessica’s arm to stop her from landing in a pile of mud.

“Thanks,” Jessica said, righting herself. “You’re always looking out for people, aren’t you?”

“That sounds like a Sam line,” Dean said.

“He talks about you a lot.”

“He talks about _you_ a lot.”

They reached the maid’s quarters. Most people nearby ignored them, hurrying from building to building, rushing to escape the wind. Jessica waited near the entrance, her face open and ready. She knew Dean wanted to speak.

“So,” Dean said, “one more week ‘till you’re bonded.”

“One more week.” The moment Jessica repeated the words, her face lit up. 

“You seem excited.”

“I am. You know, the War took my family from me. I kinda feel like I’m getting one again. It’s not the same-- no one could replace mom-- but it’s new. Like a second chance, maybe.”

“You say that now but that’s ‘cause you haven’t met the Lawrence part of the family yet.”

“I’ve been warned.” Jessica’s eyes sparkled. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Dean smiled, reflecting her unbridled joy. A burst of wind shook the last of the leaves off the trees. Wishing he thought to bring his cloak, Dean shivered. 

“Well, it’s cold,” Dean said. “You should get inside.”

Jessica wrapped her arms around herself to stave off the chill. “In a minute. I have a question for you.”

“Go for it.”

“Are you coming to the ceremony with someone? Like a…” Jessica caught Dean’s eye, the corner of her mouth curving upward. “...certain Angel, maybe?” 

Dean did not break eye contact, did not twitch an eyelid. “You two set me up for this, didn’t you?”

“Sure did!” Jessica’s teasing laugh chimed like a bell. “For what it’s worth, I think you should ask him.”

“Have you ever met Cas?”

“No, but I hear things. You and the Angel are the big topic these days.”

“People talk about us?” Dean’s eyes widened as he thought about why. “Wait. What do they say?” 

Jessica grabbed the handle of the maid quarter's door. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

With one final quirk of an eyebrow, Jessica opened the door and disappeared behind it. Dean was left alone. The door did not answer his question either. 

⁂

Sam tossed the letter aside. Due to the danger of travel, especially for non-combatants, he expected the answer. Still, he wished Ellen and the others could have made it to the ceremony. Ellen’s letter promised a celebration as soon as he and Jessica visited. Sam planned to hold them to that.

Carrying his half-melted candle to his bedside table, Sam set it down and dropped onto the bed with a groan. He untied his boots and tossed them into the corner before dropping his day clothes into a pool on the floor to change into his nightshirt. It was a long day-- in a series of longer days to come-- and Sam was eager to slide under the covers. 

He did not get the chance. The instant he touched the covers to pull them back, someone knocked on the door. Sam knew from the pattern that it was Dean. 

“Hey!” Dean knocked again. “You alone in there?”

Sam closed his eyes-- oh, how nice that was-- and made his decision. It was not Dean’s fault Sam was tired. They both were. 

Sam opened the door. At the entrance, Dean surveyed the room from one end to the other, pausing briefly on the boots in the corner and the clothes on the floor, and grinned.

“Somehow, I think Jessica’s gonna make you clean up after yourself.” Dean let himself inside, claiming the desk chair for himself. “Speaking of, is there any reason why you sent her after me today?”

Projecting the perfect picture of innocence, Sam settled down to the edge of the bed and held Dean’s gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nice try, Sammy, but I know all your tricks.” Dean crossed his arms and gave Sam a pointed stare. “I’m the one who taught you them.”

Tilting his head back, Sam released a frustrated sigh and said, “Fine. I did. You know why? Because you don’t talk about it.”

A deep furrow appeared between Dean’s eyebrows. “About what?”

“About Hell. About what happened after. Shit, you didn’t even tell me much of what happened in Purgatory.”

“Who cares?” Dean offered an exaggerated shrug. “It’s over now.” 

“C’mon Dean.” Sam cast his arms wide. “I know your tricks, too. You’ve always thrown yourself into your work but you’re practically drowning in it now.”

“Yeah. It’s the Long War. You’re just as bad.”

“But I take breaks. I have hobbies.”

“Seriously? Did you tell Jessica to ask me about hobbies too?”

“No.” Sam rubbed his chin. “She did?”

“I guess you two are a perfect match.”

“We are.” Sam smiled, then caught himself. “Wait! This isn’t about that.”

Dean licked his lips and pressed his fingertips together, holding that position until he could speak again. “Then what is this about?”

“You.” Sam took a deep breath. “And the fact that you are hopelessly in love with Cas.”

Dean nodded like he expected that answer. To Sam’s surprise, Dean did not cry out or rise up in anger. Instead, he stayed still and met Sam’s eyes.

“You say that like it’s supposed to be a surprise,” Dean said. “I know.”

“Hold up.” Sam stumbled over his words. “Hold up. You’re saying that and yet you’re mad people think you should ask him out?”

“Of course I-- Wait. People?”

“Oh yeah. Jess says a bunch of people are talking. Guessing. Wondering about things. There are rumours about a betting pool.”

“A bet--” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Whatever. I’m not asking him on a, a--” Dean winced. “A date.”

“Why not?” Sam asked. “You said it yourself: there’s no time like the present.” 

“He’s dealing with enough. He doesn’t have to deal with me, too.”

“I think he already is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dude, you stare at him all the time. How can you miss how he looks at you?” Sam’s words elicited a few slow blinks from Dean but no reply. Sam sighed. “Look. Just think about it. You don’t even have to use the word date if you don’t wanna.”

“I--” Dean clicked his tongue. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Now I would _finally_ like to sleep.” 

Dean stood and walked to the exit with light, floating steps. When he reached the door he said, “I can’t believe that a week before your ceremony you spent a bunch of time thinking about-- about me and Cas.”

“I’m happy,” Sam said. “I guess I hoped you could be too.”

Dean pressed his lips together and left the room. Granted the chance to sleep, Sam blew out the candle. Even with all his exhaustion, even with the knowledge that he needed to be alert the next day, when he settled under the covers he found it hard to close his eyes.

⁂

“There’s another thing I don’t get,” Balthazar said. “Why do humans care so much about food? It’s all nourishment.”

“It’s not always about nourishment,” Castiel said. “Sometimes it’s about preference. Sam enjoys fresh vegetables. Dean is fond of pie.” 

“The only thing worth ingesting is booze.

Castiel made an amused sound, then returned his attention to Kevin’s pages on his desk. He read them again, unable to find the answer he sought. 

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of Castiel’s bed, Balthazar flipped the tri-edged blade in and out of its wrist sheath. Balthazar flashed an appreciative grin.

“Balthazar?”

Balthazar flicked his wrist. “Yeah?” 

“Have you heard anything about something called Mother?”

When the blade was released, Balthazar did not catch it. It bounced onto the bed. “Where did you hear that?”

“Not in here.” Castiel shoved the pages across the desk. He turned his back on them lest he be tempted to rip them. “The Leviathans. It was their last word. I have been unable to find a single reference to it anywhere.” 

“What makes you think that means anything?”

“Everything means something.”

Balthazar replaced the blade in the sheath. “I need one of these.” He removed it and threw it on the bedside table. “Well, guess I’ll be heading back to the village full of Creatures.”

The weary shake in Balthazar’s voice made Castiel ask, “Are they giving you any trouble?”

“Oh, I can’t complain. Couple months ago I would’ve killed them or sent them back into the War.” Balthazar jumped off the bed. “Even Sam Winchester’s been rather pragmatic about this whole thing. He just nods at me in the hallway.”

“War has a way of bringing people together.”

“What?”

“It’s something Dean said when I asked why Sam and Jessica are in such a rush to bond after only a few months.”

Balthazar pinched the bridge of his nose and laughed. “Well, not everyone takes things as slowly as you, Cassie.” He made a point of catching Castiel’s eye, his voice suddenly serious. “Especially humans.”

Castiel squinted, his head in danger of tilting completely sideways. “I don’t under--” 

A knock interrupted Castiel. Balthazar let out a single abbreviated laugh. 

“Well,” Balthazar said, “speak of the human.”

With a wave and a flutter of wings, Balthazar left the room. Castiel rolled his eyes. He never realized how annoying it was for someone to leave in the middle of a conversation until he could not do it anymore.

“Cas?” Dean knocked again. “You in there?”

Castiel opened the door. Dean delayed in the entryway, poking his head inside and searching every corner of the room.

“What is it?” Castiel asked. 

“Nothing. I just thought--” Dean shrugged. “I thought I heard someone else.”

“Balthazar,” Castiel said, returning to his chair. “He left.”

“How?” Dean walked into the middle of the room and spun in a circle. “Do you have a secret exit or something?”

“No, nothing like that. He flew.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about that. Wings must come in handy.” Once Dean said it, he whipped around to face Castiel. “Uh-- I mean-- That is--”

“It’s fine. They do, indeed, ‘come in handy,’ as you say.” Castiel looked at his folded hands resting in his lap. “Instant travel is nice.”

Dean sat at the foot of Castiel’s bed. “I bet.”

“Still, there are some advantages in taking the long way.”

“Like what?”

Castiel raised his head, a fond smile on his face. “You can learn a lot about your travel companions.”

“I--” Dean rubbed the back of his neck and said, quietly, “I bet.”

“What did you need, Dean?”

“Need?” Dean squeaked. He cleared his throat and, as if his thoughts had not just wandered down a dangerous road, said, “Right, right. I wanted to ask you something.”

“Well,” Castiel said, casting his arms wide in a gesture he learned from Dean, “I’m here.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, a soft smile creeping across his face. “Yeah, you are.” Dean took a deep breath. “Anyway, you plan on going to Sam and Jess’s ceremony, right?”

“I intended to offer my congratulations if that is what you mean.” 

“What? Not sticking around for the party?”

“I’m not one for large social gatherings.”

“I don’t know about that. I mean, you did pretty good in Lawrence.” 

“That’s because I had you with me.”

“You-- You just say stuff like that,” Dean muttered into his lap. He took another breath, deeper than the last. “Well, why don’t you come with me, then?”

“With…” Castiel tilted his head. “With you?”

“Yeah, man. I’ll do the talking and if you need to bail--”

“Yes,” Castiel blurted. He was not sure who was more surprised: him or Dean. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Oh. Okay.” Once he realized what just happened, Dean shot out of his seat and clapped his hands. “Oh! Okay! Good, good. It’s a da-- Uh, it’ll be fun.”

Castiel nodded. “Fun.” 

“Neat. I’m gonna go, uh, sleep now.” Dean headed for the door. “You should too, you know. You’ll feel better.”

“I’m fine.” Castiel raised an eyebrow. “However, I’m not so sure about you.”

“What? Nah, I’m fine _._ ” Dean punctuated his words with a laugh which did little to convince Castiel he spoke the truth. 

Castiel joined Dean at the door. He placed a hand against Dean’s cheek. Dean audibly swallowed.

“You _are_ a little warm,” Castiel said. “You’re sure you’re fine?”

“I just need some sleep. Don’t worry about me.”

Castiel ran his thumb across Dean’s cheek. It was like the room around Castiel faded away. All he saw was Dean.

“I always worry about you,” Castiel said. “Rest well, Dean.”

“Right.” Dean's tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, a movement that left Castiel oddly intrigued. “‘Night, Cas.”

It was not until the door closed behind Dean with a final click that the room returned. Castiel faced his empty bed and sighed.

In the room next to Castiel’s own, Dean did the same thing. 


	40. Bonded (Please Forgive Me)

Dean was not crying.

That was what he said during the vows, during the meal, and during the first dance. Not a single person believed him. Probably because he sniffed, hid his face, and wiped away tears the whole time.

Dean sat at the temporary bar-- set up and ran by Jamie-- at the back of the ballroom far away from the dancefloor. He finished the one beer he allowed himself that evening and handed the empty glass to Jamie. He sought out the platform on the other side of the ballroom, watching the band. 

The band was less of a band and more a ragtag group pieced together from anyone who volunteered. Turned out, Captain Singer played a mean tambourine once he had enough whiskey in him. With Pamela’s voice and Charlie’s lute, the three made quite the team. They played mostly drinking songs and sea shanties-- not the usual fare for a castle ballroom, Dean would venture-- keeping the guest’s energy high. 

The people danced and sang and held their drinks high. In the middle of the dance floor packed with bodies, Sam and Jessica were the loudest of them all. Sam was easy to find, with his head poking out from over the crowd, but all Dean could see of Jessica was a small tuft of blonde hair. Dean watched the couple, felt a swell in his chest, and knew, if there was one thing he did right, it was taking care of Sam.

“You keep saying you’re not crying but…” From his seat beside Dean, Castiel ran a finger under Dean’s eye. Castiel held his finger up, watching it glisten under the torchlight. 

“Shut up, Cas.” 

Dean made a move to shove Castiel. Instead, he ended up clinging to Castiel’s arm. He decided to go with it and pressed against Castiel’s side, relaxing when no protests followed. Everyone else was on the dancefloor or watching the happy couple, not the bar. In the wake of witnessesing his little brother find happiness, Dean had a hard time keeping his emotions in check. He allowed himself a private moment. 

“Are you well?” Castiel asked.

Dean nodded into Castiel’s shoulder. He feared that, if he were to speak, he would realize he was not-so-subtly snuggling Castiel or that Castiel did not seem to mind it one bit.

“Thank you for convincing me to stay,” Castiel said. “You were right. This was fun.”

Castiel gently pushed Dean back into his own seat. Dean was about to complain but he noticed Aaron and Garth heading their way. Garth slung an arm around Aaron’s shoulders, holding him upright.

“Hey, y’all!” Garth lifted Aaron wholly off his feet and carried him to the chair beside Dean. “Some party, huh?”

Aaron groaned and rolled his head to the side. “Back in training, Garth was the lightweight. _Was._ ” Aaron grabbed Dean’s arm and, in a dire tone, advised. “Don’t try to keep up with him now. _Don’t_.”

“Noted,” Dean said. 

Aaron sank into his chair and closed his eyes. A few moments later, he began to snore.

“Aww, he looks just like my little sis after her bottle.” For a short moment, Garth’s face darkened. He blinked and was back to his usual cheerful self. “Why are you two just sitting back here? It’s a party! You should be dancing.”

Dean laughed and glanced at Castiel. Pit the Angel up against a whole nest of vampires and he would never crack his serene expression. Suggest the Angel join a group of sweaty, dancing humans and he acted as if a sticky-footed insect crawled up his spine. 

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on Aaron, don’t you think?” Dean gestured to the dancefloor, where a group of recruits kept checking the bar. One of them tapped their friend on the arm then pointed excitedly at Garth. “Your adoring public awaits.” 

Garth followed Dean’s gesture. “Shucks, I guess they do.” He hurried back into the fray. Halfway to his destination, he turned around and yelled, “Nice seeing you Dean! You too, Mister Castiel!” 

Castiel nodded and Dean waved. Without another delay, Garth returned to his group.

“He seems to be doing well,” Castiel said.

“It’s Garth. Throw him in a tornado and he’d come out the other side to tell you about how fun it was,” Dean said.

“And you wouldn’t?”

“Oh, no. I’d come out the other side but I’d complain about it. You would never hear the end of it.” Dean paused for a moment, enjoying the sight of Castiel’s smile. “So, Cas, what do you have against dancing?”

“I have nothing against dancing.”

“Really? Then why’d you look like you’d rather fight an entire army than dance?”

“Because I would. I…” Castiel sighed. “I do not dance.”

“C’mon. Not even a waltz here and there? No Celestial parties where you showed your stuff?”

“There were marriages, similar to your bonding. And no, I did not.”

“Not even once? Not even a one--” Dean cut off with a gasp when Castiel turned a wrathful gaze on him. “You never learned! Oh, that is adorable.”

“I--” Castiel ran a hand through his hair. “I never had the desire.”

“Do you now?” When Castiel did not answer, Dean continued, “‘Cause I could teach you, if you want.”

Castiel stared out over the dance floor. He did not reply. Dean grinned and let up on the teasing. At least, for as long as it took him to check on the still sleeping Aaron. He ordered some water from Jamie. Aaron would need it.

While Dean’s back was turned, the song ended and Sam found the opportunity to break away from the dancers. Jessica followed close behind, allowing Sam’s size to part the crowd. They hurried to the bar. Sam waited for Dean to turn around and Jessica ordered fresh drinks. 

Placing Aaron’s water within easy reach, Dean did not see Sam right behind him until he turned around. Sam laughed at Dean’s strangled squawk. 

“Dude!” Dean punched Sam’s shoulder. “What are you doing here? It’s your party.”

“Exactly,” Sam said, “so I do what I want. What are you doing here?”

Dean jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in Aaron’s direction. “Babysitting.”

Sam shook his head. “He should’ve listened to us.” Without warning, Sam wrapped his arms around Dean. It was too tight, too hot, and too sweaty but Dean would never break away. “So happy, Dean. ‘M so happy.” 

“Alright, you big lug,” Dean said, returning the embrace, “How much did you drink?”

“‘Lil bit.”

“Yeah, yeah. You sappy lightweight.”

Sam pulled back but did not let go of Dean. “Dean. We’ll win this War. We will. And then you can feel like this, too.” Sam glanced at Castiel, who was politely listening to Jessica as she waited for the drinks. “Thank you, Dean. Thank you for looking after me but I’m okay now.” Sam brought Dean in for another bone-crushing hug. “I’m okay.”

Dean was not crying. 

Okay. Maybe he was. A little.

Jessica returned with the drinks, alerting Sam with a soft tap on the arm. She waited patiently for the brothers to disentangle. If she saw anything shining from Sam or Dean’s eyes, she was too polite to say anything. 

Handing both glasses to Sam, Jessica approached Dean and kissed him on the cheek. Dean accepted her hug as well. Jessica was not as strong as Sam but her touch was no less warm. 

“I’m glad you brought Cas,” Jessica whispered. “I can see why you like him.”

“You’re on a first name basis now?” Dean asked.

“He insisted.” 

“Well, you are part of the family now. Congrats again.”

Jessica backed away and returned to Sam’s side. The couple tried to convince Dean to join them in the crowd. After a few shrugs and gestures toward Aaron, Sam and Jessica gave up, raising their drinks to Dean before they returned to the dancefloor. They stayed on the outskirts of the dancers as they finished their drinks. Once the band started up a fast-paced song, people plucked the empty glasses from their hands, and pushed Sam and Jessica back into the middle of the celebration. They were eager to join. 

Aaron stirred. Dean shoved the glass of water into Aaron’s hands before he opened his eyes. At Dean’s urging, Aaron drank it.

“Don’t worry, Dean,” Jamie said when Dean handed back the glass, “I’ve been looking after Aaron for years now. I’ll make sure he gets home.”

“Thanks, Jamie,” Dean said. “You are, as always, the best.”

“I know.” Jamie winked. “By the way, your Angel slipped away a little while ago. You should go after him.” She flashed a knowing smile.

“Oh for the love of--” Dean gripped the edge of the bar with both hands. “Is everyone in on this?”

“I got silver on the line. Go on. Get.”

Dean left, not because Jamie pointed out the exit, but because he needed a break from the noise. That was it. The fact that he followed Castiel's path, worried that he left without saying a word, was hardly a factor in Dean’s decision. That was, if hardly meant all of it.

Lantern held aloft, Dean picked his way through the starless night. The snow crunched underfoot as he searched the grounds. Winter had arrived in the Capital and the chill hanging in the air told Dean it was there to stay. Dean drew his cloak around his shoulders, glad he thought to grab it before he left the castle after his search for Castiel indoors proved fruitless. 

Most people were at the party so Dean did not meet more than a few guards as he moved. He checked the gardens first. He did not find Castiel, but he did find a giggling couple on the bench. Dean left them alone. 

He continued. There was nobody in the training grounds, not that he expected anyone to be there so late, and he doubted Castiel had suddenly started hanging out with the blacksmiths. There was one more place Dean could look.

When Dean reached the stables, he saw the flickering of a lantern underneath the doors. He heard the sound of horse hooves, soft whinnying, and Castiel’s voice.

“I know,” Castiel said, his voice so soft and soothing Dean strained to hear it, “I haven’t been around as much as I should. I hope the stable hands have been taking good care of you.” A short horse-like huff sounded, followed by an amused sound from Castiel. “My apologies, Seraph. I didn’t think to bring an apple.” Seraph whined. Castiel shushed him. “I know, I know. You want what you can’t have. We’re much the same, you and I.” Castiel paused, and Dean figured he should stop creeping outside the doors. When he went to push them open, he heard Castiel whisper, “They are a lovely family.”

The doors swung open. Castiel leaned over Seraph’s stall, stroking his mane. Seraph nudged Castiel’s shoulder with his snout in what Dean swore was a gesture of comfort. 

“There you are,” Dean said.

Dean shut the doors behind him and hung his lantern on a hook beside them. Castiel did not turn around. Seraph watched Dean with wary eyes as Dean approached the stall. Dean leaned against the wall and waited for Castiel to react. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel eventually said. 

“Hey, Cas. You left without saying goodbye.”

“Yes, I--” Castiel sighed. “I needed some quiet. You seemed busy. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Dean knew that was not the whole story but he chose not to press the issue. “How’s Seraph?”

“He’s well.” Castiel patted Seraph on the snout, then faced Dean for the first time since he entered the stables. “He tells me someone made sure he received proper care.”

“From a distance. He still doesn’t like me.” Dean reached a hand out to Seraph, who huffed and retreated to the back of his stall before Dean could touch him.

“Well, allow me to thank you on Seraph’s behalf.”

Castiel attempted a reassuring smile. Dean could tell something bothered Castiel. The lines at the corners of his mouth spoke of tension. Most people would not notice but Dean had learned to read Castiel.

“You know,” Dean said, “I never did get the chance to teach you to dance.”

Castiel squinted. “You’re serious.”

Dean grinned and backed away from the stalls, holding out a hand to Castiel in invitation. “C’mon.”

After an eye roll and a fond, but exasperated, sigh, Castiel joined Dean in the open space. “There’s no music.”

“Fine. I’ll sing if it’s so important.”

“Sing?”

“Yeah, now c’mon.” Dean raised his left hand. “Take my hand.”

Once Castiel followed the instruction, Dean grabbed Castiel’s free hand and placed it on his shoulder. Then, Dean wrapped his right arm around Castiel, his hand coming to rest on the small of Castiel’s back. Dean brought Castiel closer and, for a moment, they remained still. Dean forgot himself, unable to think beyond the warmth of Castiel's body and the blue of his eyes. Dean was always surprised by the colour, no matter how many times he looked. Poor Dean.

“Dean?”

“Right.” Dean swallowed. “Uh, I’ll lead. When I step forward, you step back. You’re like a mirror, okay?” Castiel nodded and Dean stepped forward with his left foot. After a slight delay, Castiel stepped back with his right. “Good, good. Now the other side.” Castel followed the instruction, only a little behind Dean’s movements. Dean flashed an encouraging smile. “You’re a natural. Okay, shift your weight to the other side, then slide your feet together.” This time, they moved together. “Perfect! Alright. Now I move back and you move forward. My right, your left.”

“Like a mirror,” Castiel said.

“Exactly. Now the other foot. And slide.” They were in sync. Dean smiled. “That’s all there is to it, really. Repeat that and you’re dancing.”

Castiel’s face radiated pride. “Shall we try again?”

“Sure.”

Dean hummed as they danced. His hum turned into a song as they moved, soft notes of a familiar waltz under his breath. 

“Has anyone told you that you have a nice voice?” Castiel asked.

“You think so? You know, I always wondered if I could’ve been a bard.” Even with Dean speaking, he and Castiel never lost rhythm. 

“Retirement plan?”

“Oh no, definitely not.” Dean clicked his tongue. “Then I’d have to sing in front of people.” 

“Now you know how I feel about dancing.”

Dean laughed. “Well, you’re doing great now. You’re a good student.”

“And you are an excellent teacher.”

Dean wanted to duck his head but it was hard to hide his flush from Castiel’s blue, blue eyes. “Say, wanna get fancy?”

“What do you have in mind?”

Dropping his right arm from Castiel’s back, Dean raised their joined hands. At Castiel’s questioning look, Dean said, “Give me a twirl.” 

The comment earned Dean a sardonic eyebrow, but Castiel complied. Dean kept a hand at Castiel’s waist to keep him steady. After Castiel completed the turn, Dean reached out to return to the hold and tripped.

Castiel caught Dean, both hands pressed against his chest to keep him upright. Once Dean regained his balance, he fully intended to apologize and return to the task at hand. Instead, he ended up looking down into Castiel’s eyes, caught somewhere between concern and amusement, and froze.

“Dean? Are you alright?”

It was one of those perfect moments. It was one of those moments where the heart pounded, the stomach fluttered, and the mind knew it was time to take a chance. Dean rested one hand on Castiel’s back and brought the other to his face. With his thumb, Dean traced the swell of Castiel’s bottom lip.

“Cas,” Dean whispered.

Softly, sweetly, Dean kissed Castiel. It was a quick, chaste action but it sent shockwaves through Dean’s body. Dean hardly realized what he had done until it was over and he was left with Castiel watching him with round eyes, shining in the flickering light of the lanterns. 

“Oh! Sorry,” Dean said, “I--”

Dean made a move to break away. Castiel did not let him go. 

“Dean.” Castiel mirrored Dean, raising one hand to trace Dean’s lips. “Dean.”

Castiel pressed his lips to Dean’s, pulling back as soon as they touched. He moved closer to Dean, until they stood chest to chest. One of Castiel’s hands slid over Dean’s shoulder to rest on the back of his neck, and the other held Dean’s chin. Castiel remained still, staring into Dean's eyes, and dropped his gaze deliberately to Dean’s lips.

The third time, they moved in sync. Castiel licked at the seam of Dean’s lips. Dean opened to him eagerly. Castiel gripped Dean’s hair and pulled their bodies together, like he could not get close enough. Swept up in the intensity, Dean ran his hands over Castiel’s hips, fingers running under the hem of his shirt to be rewarded with smooth, hot skin. 

When they broke apart, Castiel and Dean rested their foreheads together as they caught their breath. It was one of those perfect moments.

But it only lasted a moment.

Castiel jerked back from Dean, blinking as if he had just woken up. He broke away from Dean, backing away far enough so they could not touch.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--” Castiel would not look at Dean. He looked at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“Cas? Hey, what’s wrong?” When Dean tried to reach out, Castiel flinched and retreated. 

Eyes still on the ground, Castiel kept backing away from Dean as he spoke. ”I shouldn’t have indulged my-- I let this go too far. I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that.” Dean made a move toward Castiel but stopped halfway through as his proximity was clearly unwelcome. “What does that mean?”

“I--” Castiel's back hit the doors, rattling them. The horses whinnied at the disruptive noise. “Please forgive me.”

“Cas, wait!”

In the split second before he disappeared behind the door, Castiel looked Dean in the eyes. Dean had a hard time reading what he saw there but, in the future, he would say, underneath all the sadness and regret, was the dominant emotion of fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware you have nothing to go on but my word but I did, in fact, write the line, “I know, I know. You want what you can’t have. We’re much the same, you and I,” back in August. Huh.


	41. Out, Out, Brief Candle

If a human sat on the snowy roof of Andrea’s Tavern wearing nothing but a shirt, trousers, and sword belt, they would shiver at the bitter cold. While Castiel came close-- so close the hair on his arms stood at the gust of frigid wind-- he was still not human. 

Yet, he was not Celestial either. He could age. He had no wings. He was something else. Something in between. Something alone.

Dean was human. He deserved a home. He deserved a family. He deserved an equal partner, one who would grow old alongside him.

Castiel could not provide Dean with any of that. Castiel had forgotten himself back in the stable. Back there, his body entwined with Dean, Castiel felt that something in his chest burst. The emotion overwhelmed him. It made him impulsive. 

While Castiel was not a stranger to desire, it had been a long time since he felt it. He did not remember it being so strong, so consuming, so demanding. Perhaps his desire had been waiting so long for someone to awaken it, it had shown up with full force. Perhaps it was just Dean. All Castiel knew was that it felt different than it had with Balthazar: more intense in some ways but less stable in others. Both instances, however, were just as confusing. Too bad he did not have a hundred years to think it over this time.

The sunrise lit the horizon, turning the clouds a deep purple and the castle into a dark shape in the distance. Sam and Jessica’s first night as a couple had ended. Castiel wished them well. 

Time moved on and there was not a whole lot of it left. Castiel could not spend all of it mulling over his emotions. He had to prepare for the coming battle. He could think and work at the same time. Ice and snow slid down the rooftop when Castiel stood and cascaded to the ground when he slammed the door shut behind him. 

Castiel waited for the sun to reach the sky before he returned to the castle. Almost everyone he passed was subdued, yawning wide as they went about their tasks and wincing at loud noises. He received a few greetings as he went by. Castiel did his best to return them, hoping he did not appear too dour.

The area leading to the blacksmith shops was deserted. No one wanted to listen to the loud hammering which echoed down the path. Castiel followed the sound.

Her work apron over her formal clothes from the night before, Charlie slammed her hammer into the hot metal on her anvil over and over. The hammer bounced back at the force she used and the metal split down the middle. Charlie swore and threw her hammer onto the workbench behind her. She picked up the split metal once it cooled, readied to dispose of it, and stopped when she noticed her guest.

“Oh, Castiel! Hi. I--” She dropped the metal back onto the anvil with a clang. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Castiel said. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no. You just surprised me.” Charlie pushed back the strands of hair falling from her bun and offered Castiel a shaky grin. “I couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d get more work done but, uh, it’s not going well.”

“Should I come another time?”

“Stars above, I’m losing my manners. Come in, come in.” At Charlie’s instance, Castiel moved from the door and into the shop. When Castiel joined her by the anvil, Charlie glanced up at him and fiddled with the string of the apron behind her back. “Hey, um, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“You know Dean’s looking for you, right?”

Of course he would, after the way Castiel left. Castiel was not ready to see Dean. Castiel did not trust his ability to keep himself in check. He needed more time to think, more time to process everything. 

“That’s…” Castiel pursed his lips. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Right,” Charlie said, easily reading the stony expression on Castiel’s face, “okay. What did you need?”

“I find myself in need of a good set of armour.”

“Armour?” Charlie blinked then blinked again. “Wait. You want me to make armour. For _you_?”

“Yes.” Castiel regarded Charlie with a tilted head. “Can you do it? I can pay.”

“Pay?” Charlie balked. “I’m not making the freaking Angel pay. I usually do weapons but I am so down for this. Do you have any specifics?”

“You’re the professional. I will trust your judgement.”

“You will? Uh, I mean you should!”

“Don’t worry,” Castiel said, flashing her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, “you come highly recommended.” 

"Wow. Okay. Um, I'll make some sketches and then you can come by in a couple of days. I'll need your measurements and stuff."

He nodded to her, then marched to the exit. He felt Charlie’s eyes on his back as he left. Castiel paused in the doorway.

“If you see Dean,” Castiel said, “tell him he didn’t do anything wrong.”

He did not stay for a reply. 

Castiel’s arrival in the training grounds correlated with the noonbell. With so many recruits rushing to the kitchen, it was easy for Castiel to slip by unnoticed on his way to the Captain’s office. Castiel did not check to see if Dean was part of the crowd. 

The Captain grunted when Castiel knocked on the door. Castiel took it as permission to enter. Captain Singer mumbled complaints were cut short when he glanced up from his stack of paperwork and saw who stood at the door.

The Captain dropped his pen. It bounced off the pages and rolled under the desk. The lack of swearing spoke of the Captain’s surprise.

“You told me to not return to your office for a long time.” Castiel took a tentative step inside. “Has it been long enough?”

Wreathed in the light of the open door behind him, Castiel appeared as a divine being. When he closed the door and approached the desk at the Captain’s behest, he appeared as a man. Captain Singer rubbed his eyes.

“Can’t keep much of a grudge with how much you’ve been saving our asses.” Captain Singer indicated the chair opposite him. “Take a seat.”

Castiel did not move. “Thank you. I cannot stay long.”

“Okay.” The Captain folded his hands over his paperwork pile. “What’s up?”

“I wish to inform you that I will be away for the next few days.”

Captain Singer was silent for a moment, then said, “Thanks, I think. You’ve never told me you were leaving before.”

“I know. I…” Castiel was trying to be a better ally. He was trying to share his knowledge. He was trying to no longer keep secrets. “I’m in need of some information. It may or may not pertain to the War. I’ll let you know once I find out.” 

“Yeah, okay. Sounds good.” Captain Singer narrowed his eyes and studied Castiel. “Is everything good with you?

Castiel nodded to the Captain, then headed to the door. He paused there, hand wrapped around the handle, and glanced behind him. The Captain’s office held many items from his past: old armour, battle records, empty whiskey bottles. Castiel focused on the handmade rug on the floor made by the late Karen Singer. 

“Bobby,” Castiel began, “may I ask you a personal question?”

“You can ask,” Captain Singer said. “I can’t promise I’ll answer.”

“Your wife was taken long before you.” Castiel licked his lips, then turned and leaned against the door. “If you knew that before becoming involved with her, would you have still bonded with her?”

While the Captain’s first instinct was to yell-- Castiel could see the warning flash behind Captain Singer’s eyes and the sharp intake of breath that acted as a harbinger to anger-- he stopped short. The Captain folded his hands together and placed them on the desk, his lips disappearing behind his beard as he considered the question and the meaning behind it.

“Wow, you were not kidding about the personal part,” the Captain said.

“You’re right, That was too much I’ll--” Castiel reached behind him to find the doorknob. 

“Yes.”

Castiel paused. “I’m sorry?”

“She was the love of my life. She _is_ the love of my life.” Captain Singer looked at the rug, a smile on his face that Castiel had never seen before. “So, yes, I would still bond with her. Even if I only had a day.”

Shouts sounded from the training grounds as people returned from their meals. The clash of training swords echoed to the Captain’s door. Arrows thwacked against targets and knights led their recruits through rigorous training routines. Neither Castiel nor the Captain heard the commotion.

“I see,” Castiel said. “Thank you for your answer.”

“Yeah,” the Captain said. “You know, you didn’t answer my question before. Is everything good with you?”

Castiel opened the door. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

He did not give the Captain a chance to reply. Castiel a lot to think about and he needed some distance from the castle. Thankfully, he had the means to do it. 

Careful to avoid the training ground proper, Castiel headed back to the castle and to his room. At this hour, Dean would be training his second batch of recruits. Castiel walked past Dean’s empty room, feeling vaguely guilty. 

Castiel had intended to tell Dean he planned to leave the Capital after the ceremony. Castiel had not intended to hide from Dean. Castiel had to think. He could not do that with Dean next door. He had to think.

He had to think. 

Balthazar was already waiting when Castiel entered the room. Standing from his seat on the bed, Balthazar met Castiel at the door and handed him a filled travel pack. 

“How was the party?” Balthazar asked.

“Fine,” Castiel said, securing the pack over his shoulders.

“Why do you need all this stuff, anyway?” Balthazar indicated the pack. “I’m flying you right in.”

“It’s not for me.” 

“Right. Sure. Well, I’m ready when you are.”

Years passed since Castiel last flew. He missed the lurch in his stomach, the wind whistling by his ears, and the freedom of the open sky. Even borrowing someone else’s wings, the sensation was liberating. 

It was over all too soon. In a single flash of a shooting star, Castiel and Balthazar stood at the entrance of the hidden village. The guards on duty ushered them in on arrival, offering cordial greetings as they walked past. 

“Kind of you to appear outside their gate,” Castiel said.

“Yeah,” Balthazar said. “Turns out you shouldn’t pop right into the boss’s house.”

“Did you learn that from experience?” 

“There are just _so many_ rules. How do you keep up with them all?”

“I don’t.”

A woman peeled back the curtains in a nearby house. Her eyes glowed as she watched Castiel and Balthazar head down the village's main path. As they travelled to Lenore's house, anyone nearby hurried out of sight. 

“Still not big fans of Celestials,” Balthazar said when a child scurried out of sight. 

“Can you blame them?” Castiel asked.

“Nah.” Balthazar climbed up Lenore’s porch steps and knocked on her front door. “Still, we got an alliance.”

“It doesn’t mean we have their trust.” Castiel stood beside Balthazar, arms clasped behind his back. “It takes more than a few months to make up for millennia of warfare.” 

“I wonder how one makes up for everything they’ve done.”

“They don’t.” Castiel tapped Balthazar’s shoulder, making a point of meeting his eyes. “But they try.”

Balthazar always had a sarcastic remark at hand or a joke to deflect any situation. Rarely was he speechless but, in the time between Castiel’s words and Lenore opening the door, Balthazar did not say a word. 

“Angel,” Lenore said, “it’s good to see you alive.”

Lenore ushered the two Celestials into her house. Balthazar sat in the armchair and Lenore settled on the bench. Castiel did not sit down right away. After leaving his travel pack by the door, he approached the last chair and peered out the window, watching the shadows move in the deceptively empty village. Though he looked at the building on the other side of the path, Castiel did not see it. 

“You know, Cassie,” Balthazar said, “this would be a lot easier if you started talking.”

Castiel blinked. He turned around and saw Lenore’s evaluative stare and the worry Balthazar hid behind a half-hearted grin. 

“Right.” Castiel sat on the edge of the chair and addressed Lenore. “I need any information you can provide about an entity known as Mother.”

Lenore lowered her head. “Where did you learn of her?”

“The Leviathan. However, I haven’t been able to find any other reference to her. Not during my travels. Not in the castle library. Not in Metatron’s prophecy.” 

“That’s not a surprise.” Lenore sighed. “She’s all but forgotten.” 

“But not by you.”

Lenore nodded. “Most Creatures don’t remember their beginnings. They only remember the Metatron’s voice. But he did not create us.” 

“Well, yeah,” Balthazar said. “The All-Father did.”

“Do you think that’s true?” Lenore asked. “We Creatures were humans once. Did you ever stop to wonder how the first Creatures of the Night were made?” She raised her hand when Balthazar opened his mouth to answer. “The All-Father is not all that was and is not all that will ever be.”

“He created everything,” Balthazar said.

“That’s what you’ve been told,” Lenore said, “but do you believe one singular being could create all of this? All the oceans, all the birds, all the individuals that make up the Realm? Or, could you consider, that even all-powerful beings need help?”

Balthazar looked as if he expected Lenore to sprout an extra set of fangs in her hair, but Castiel rubbed his chin, considering her words.

"We were always taught that the All-Father was everything, that He was infallible. I have been questioning it for years." Castiel leaned forward, all his attention on Lenore. "Tell us."

She did. Lenore told them about the Mother of All. The Mother gave life to all the Creatures of the Night. She created the Alphas-- the first werewolves, vampires, and other Creatures-- who, in turn, made more Creatures from the humans. After God abandoned the Leviathan and banished them to her dimension-- her Purgatory-- the Mother took them under her care.

The All-Father could not abide anyone else enacting change upon his Creation. Many, many millennia ago, long before Castiel became the Celestial commander, long before humans learned of fire, the Mother of All disappeared and all the Creatures of the Night were subject to Heaven's will.

"How do you know all this?" Balthazar asked when Lenore finished her tale.

"You are not the only ones who have been alive for a long time." Lenore did not break eye contact with Castiel. "And you are not the only one tired of all this." 

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Castiel asked.

"I didn't know if I could trust you," she said, "but you've proven yourself. I have to ask, once more, for you to help me."

"What do you need?"

"I have reason to suspect, after everything you've told me, that Mother is still alive."

Balthazar scoffed. "What makes you think she didn't bugger off like the All-Father?"

"Because the Metatron can control the Creatures. I have no way to prove it but I--" Lenore stood and walked to the window, stopping beside Castiel's chair. "I think he has her. I think he's using her to control his army." 

"How?" Balthazar asked 

"I don't know. I just--" Lenore wrapped her arms around herself and took a deep, stabilizing breath. "I've been looking for her for so long. Heaven is the last place left to search. I cannot go there." She turned her head and looked down at Castiel, the glow in her eyes an obvious plea. "But you can."

Castiel glanced at Balthazar, who shrugged and shook his head. Balthazar was ready to follow Castiel's lead. Balthazar was always ready to follow Castiel's lead.

"Please," Lenore implored. "Please let me find my Mother. Please let us find rest."

It should have rocked Castiel. Everything Lenore told him shook the very foundations of everything he knew, everything he had been taught as a Celestial, and everything he learned after he fell from Heaven. It should have rocked him but, instead, Castiel could only muster a tired nod.

"Yes," Castiel said. "I will help you."

Lenore closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, they shone with tears.

⁂

After yet another long day of exchanging information, Lenore left to distribute the supplies Castiel brought in his pack: blankets, fabric and thread to mend clothes, and a few children's dolls. Balthazar could no longer remain quiet. He deferred to Castiel during all the talks but, now they were alone, it was time to share his thoughts. Balthazar leaned forward, catching Castiel's eye from his chair in Lenore’s sitting room.

"You're really okay with all of this?" Balthazar asked. "Don't you think we would have heard about this Mother at some point?"

"We're going to search for one mother," Castiel said, "what's another?"

Balthazar groaned. "Any more of this and we're gonna need a caravan."

"I'm sure I could find one for you."

"Right. Sure. We'll just put little wings on it and it'll fly us right out of Heaven."

"You, of course, will be hitched to the front."

Balthazar laughed. "Oh, Cassie. I like the new you that jokes."

Castiel tilted his head. "I didn't before?"

"Not as easily. I guess hanging around that Dean kid finally made you pick up on sarcasm." 

The name caused Castiel to drop his gaze. Nothing else changed about his expression but, after knowing him for thousands of years, Balthazar read him easily.

“Trouble in paradise?” Balthazar asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, c’mon, Cas. You’ve been distracted all day.” Balthazar steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. “Something’s up.”

“Nothing is ‘up.’” Castiel's straight backed posture somehow became more rigid. “I just need some time away.”

“Time away, huh?” Balthazar raised an eyebrow slowly, deliberately. “This wouldn’t be another canyon incident?”

“I was well within my rights to send you after that Demon.”

“Sure. I also recall that it happened not long after you finally-- finally-- figured out I was into you.”

“I--”

“Well, at least you didn’t send Dean off on some years-long mission. I’d call that progress.”

Castiel closed his eyes. He tried to find his centre, that sense of calm and purpose that pulled him through many difficult battles. While he may not have been in a physical fight, uncomfortable social situations and talking about his own inscrutable feelings often felt like one.

“Is this something I should be talking to you about?” Castiel asked. “Considering our history.”

“You don’t have to,” Balthazar said, “but who else could listen? Who else knows what it’s like to be as old as time?”

“So, you’re fine with giving”-- Castiel swallowed, forcing the word out-- “ _relationship_ advice?”

“Don’t worry, Cas. I am fully, completely aware that I burned away everything we had when I let you fall from Heaven.” 

Castiel could have launched into platitudes, could have used some soft words to ease Balthazar’s heart. However, Balthazar spoke the truth and Castiel could not help but feel vindication when he said it out loud. Looking up at Balthazar now, Castiel no longer felt the same heat, the same spark that he felt years ago. Castiel still had his memories, still had a certain fondness for the Celestial sitting across from him, but any love he may have felt was all in the past. 

“Thank you for saying it,” Castiel said, “but you would do well to remember no one ‘lets’ me do anything.” 

Balthazar snorted. “Don’t I know it.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Seriously, now-- even I can be serious-- if you need to talk, I’m here.”

Considering the offer-- he knew Balthazar’s words were sincere-- Castiel searched for his centre again. He took a deep breath, looked Balthazar in the eye, and opened his mouth. 


	42. A Rose by Any Other Name

“I really screwed up this time, Charlie.”

Dean sat on Charlie’s workbench, his legs swinging off the edge. The loaf of bread he brought for his afternoon meal lay untouched in his lap. He leaned back against the wall, one of the flowers Charlie drew right above his head. A rose. 

Charlie examined her freshly quenched sword and allowed herself a self-satisfied smile. Straight and true. Something she loved in a sword but not so much in a woman.

“What makes you say that?” Charlie asked.

“It’s been a week since I saw Cas.”

“So? You just said that he told the Captain he’d be gone.”

“I know, I know, but--” Dean groaned. “There’s some-- some _stuff_ that went down and…” 

The handle could wait. Charle set the blade on the anvil and moved to Dean’s side. She rested her hip on the workbench and watched Dean. He stared across the shop, his vision unfocused. 

“Some _stuff_ ,” Charlie said, using the same inflection as Dean. She raised her eyebrow in question.

Dean kicked his feet, the bread rolling off his lap at the movement. Charlie caught it before it hit the ground. When she tried to hand it back, Dean did not notice. Once she placed it directly in his hand, he blinked back into the present. 

“Thanks.” Dean ripped the loaf in half and offered Charlie a piece. 

They ate in silence. Dean spent the whole time counting the number of flowers on the wall before him. There were twenty-six. Charlie liked the colourful brightness they brought into her shop, even in winter. 

Charlie spent the whole time glancing at Dean counting the new lines on his face. There were three. He seemed to be developing more of them lately, especially this particular winter.

Still staring at the wall, Dean said, in a tone he would use to describe the weather, “We kissed.”

Charlie choked on her last bite of bread. “You-- You did?” Dean licked his lips and nodded, but did not speak. Charlie stumbled through a few words until she said, “I thought you’d be happy about that.”

“So’d I.” Dean lowered his chin, watching the toes of his boots hover in the air. “Cas kinda-- I don’t know-- freaked out, I guess. He ran off on me.”

“So that’s why you were all worried when you were looking for him.” 

“Yeah.” Dean cleared his throat. “Then he goes off on this mission. I can’t help but feel like that was because of me.”

“Oh, _that’s_ what he meant.” 

“What’re you talking about?”

“The morning after the ceremony, Cas came by my shop.”

“He did?” Dean jumped off the workbench and grabbed Charlie by the shoulders. “Was he okay? Did he say anything?”

Charlie’s eyes went wide at Dean’s intense questions. “He-- he was fine, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“The guy’s hard to read, okay?” Charlie pried Dean’s hands from her shoulders but did not let them go. “He just wanted you to know that you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dean absorbed the information, the tension in his body softening with each second. He squeezed Charlie’s hands, then released her. Rubbing the back of his neck, he put some distance between them. 

“Right,” Dean said, once he regained control of himself. “Sorry about the interrogation.”

“You’re worried.” Charlie shrugged. “I get it.”

“That comment sounds like experience.” Dean wagged a finger. “Y’know, one of these days, I’m gonna learn more about your past.”

“You could try, but--” Charlie crossed her arms. “I’d like to stay in the present.” 

“Fair enough.” Dean took a deep breath. “It’s all we got.” 

⁂

Leaving the room became more and more difficult each time. Sam glanced at the bed as he left, smiling at Jessica’s hair peeking out from under the blankets. It was her day off, but not his. He left the room, closing the door behind him as softly as possible. 

Almost everyone was at the table when Sam entered the throne room. In unison, they turned their heads at his entrance. Even Kevin glanced up from his papers for half a second.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” Pamela said. 

Sam took his seat, expecting some lewd comment from Aaron. He had not stopped since the ceremony. Aaron did not comment. Instead, he looked down at the expensive piece of parchment covered in neat black lettering on the table in front of him. He rolled and unrolled the edges with restless fingers.

Dean offered Sam a smirk, though it was not much of one. Dean's attention drifted back to the empty chair beside him, a faraway look on his face.

Kevin poured over his notes with the same panicked air as always. The Captain appeared as if he had not slept at all the night before. The king stroked the few hairs on his chin he claimed was a beard. Pamela's usual smile was strained. 

With everyone quiet and tired, Sam almost felt bad for his great mood.

Almost. 

“Well,” said the Captain, “we’re all here. Should we start?”

King Adam levelled a pointed stare at the empty chair beside Dean before nodding to Captain Singer. “Yes. Aaron, I understand you have something to report?”

Aaron twisted the parchment between his fists, not hearing a word. The Captain loudly cleared his throat, which made Aaron jump. Sam put his hand on Aaron’s shoulder, which made him look up. King Adam watched Aaron expectantly, which made him figure out it was time to speak.

“Uh, yeah, I uh--” Aaron set the parchment on the table, attempting to make the rolled edges lay flat. “I have to go home.”

“Aaron,” Pamela said, “what happened?”

“My grandfather died. I’ve inherited his title. I gotta--” Aaron hid his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Aaron,” the king said. “I don’t know if we can afford to lose you.

“I know! I-- I wanna stick around, I really do, but I gotta get back.” Aaron flattened his hands against the table, his voice strong and full of purpose. “Listen. We got a whole army back there. I’ve been trying to get my grandfather to release them this whole time. If I can get home in time, I could have them moving and ready to back up your army.”

The king leaned back in his chair, considering Aaron’s information. “What do you think, Bobby?”

“We _are_ short handed,” the Captain said. “Not as many mercs answered our call as we hoped.” 

“You don’t have to give me any resources,” Aaron said. “I got a company on its way to pick me up in a few days. At least, according to this letter.”

“For what it’s worth,” Sam said, “I think we could use that army, your Majesty.”

“Same here,” Pamela said. “Aaron, Aaron, Aaron, I’m gonna miss you. Who’s gonna help me sign paperwork now?”

Dean finally tore his eyes away from the empty chair beside him. He glanced between the Captain and the king and nodded his assent.

“We’re in agreement.” King Adam stood. “I hereby relieve you of duty, Sir Bass. Please offer my condolences to your family.” 

“Oh, uh, It’s just me,” Aaron said. “But thanks, Your Majesty.” 

The pen in Kevin’s hand finally slowed. He sought out Aaron. Aaron blinked a few times before he realized Kevin was actually looking at him. Directly. 

“You’ll be okay,” Kevin said with absolute certainty. 

“Uh… Thank you?” Aaron’s reply went ignored. Kevin had already picked up his pen.

“Was there anything else on the agenda?” the king asked. 

“Any news on Cas?” Dean asked.

“Nothing yet.” The Captain’s reply came softer and kinder than most people would expect. “I’m sure we will hear something soon.” 

Sam saved Dean from the sympathetic stares by launching into a report about the medical stores. In the middle of his list about all the pain relievers on hand, Dean shot Sam a quick, grateful smile. In the middle of his assessment of the new healers he and Ash had been training, he was interrupted by a gust of wind.

There was no need for the wind. Balthazar always had a flair for the dramatic. All conversation ceased and the table occupants turned to the new arrival. Each person had a different reaction: the king and the Captain were annoyed at the interruption, Pamela and Aaron were guiltily relieved they no longer had to listen to Sam's endless list, Kevin seemed unaware of the change, and Dean showed a curious mix of contempt and hope. 

Sam reacted little on the outside. He never liked seeing Balthazar nor did he enjoy working with him. While Sam had no scar where Balthazar's blade pierced him through, thanks to Castiel's power, he often pressed a hand to his chest to relieve the phantom pain which flared at night. 

But Sam was a practical man. He knew the reason he had both his brother and Castiel back in his life was because of Balthazar's defection from Heaven. He knew Castiel vouched for Balthazar's sincerity. He knew that Balthazar's help was sorely needed to win the Long War. 

Therefore, Sam would work with the Celestial who once tried to kill him. It did not, however, mean that he had to offer anything more than a cordial working relationship. It did not mean he had forgotten or forgiven what Balthazar had done. 

Once he had everyone’s attention, Balthazar said, “Now do I have some news for you.”

⁂

Dean left the throne room, releasing a deep, heartfelt sigh when the door shut behind him. The second the king called the meeting adjourned, fellow scholars-- or nerds, as Dean would say-- Kevin and Sam nodded to each other and hustled to the library to research anything they could find about the Mother of All. Balthazar threw a lot of Realm staggering information at the group, but all they did was stay silent and watch as the king nodded. Dean suspected that King Adam only agreed to search for the Mother because it would require no more resources. They were going to Heaven anyway.

The meeting took all day. There were still more plans to be made, more issues to be resolved, and more problems to be revealed, so the group was to meet again first thing in the morning. Piles of paperwork waited in the Captain’s office, handfuls of trainees needed guidance, and supper was being served in the dining hall, but Dean had no energy for any of it. He dragged his feet down the hall, ready to drop into his bed.

At the entrance of the Angel’s wing, Dean’s path was impeded by the sudden arrival of Balthazar. Dean flinched but did his best to hide it. Balthazar smirked and leaned into the archway, completely blocking the entryway.

“What? Off to bed already? The night’s still young,” Balthazar said, “you should go out on the town, get a drink, and--”

Dean groaned. “Look, I’m--”

“ _And_ ,” Balthazar continued, “bring that drink up to the roof to have a long, _long_ , overdue chat with a certain blue-eyed individual.”

Dean’s tired and overworked brain wasted a few precious seconds trying to understand Balthazar’s words. Dean’s dawning comprehension must have shown on his face because Balthazar stepped aside and indicated the now unblocked doorway with a grand gesture.

“Dress warm,” Balthazar said before disappearing with a silent flap of his wings.

A few moments later, Dean hurried into the Commons with his cloak pulled tightly over his shoulders. He did not know what he was going to do. He did not know what he was going to say. All he knew was that he needed to see Castiel again.

Andrea’s Tavern glowed with the warm rolling fire and the friendly conversation between the patrons. Jamie bustled from customer to customer, doing the job of two people as she still had not found a suitable server to hire, but she still found time to return Dean’s friendly wave. 

Dean decided to forgo the drink. After so many years living at the Tavern, Dean did not have to ask to head upstairs. He ran his palm over the rough wooden door that marked the entrance to his and Sam’s old room on his way to the roof. The tavern's warm inviting warmth was a sharp contrast to the cold outside. 

Castiel sat at the edge of the roof, his feet dangling in the empty air. Light fluffy snow drifted lazily through the air, clinging to the ends of Castiel’s hair like the stars in the sky. Castiel tilted his head back and watched the snow fall, occasionally blinking away the snowflakes which settled in his eyelashes. 

Dean took his last breath of warm indoor air then closed the door behind him. The squeaking hinges did not disturb Castiel, nor did Dean’s heavy footfalls as he picked his way across the icy roof. Dean scraped away some of the ice with his boot before he joined Castiel. 

They sat in silence. Dean wrapped his cloak over his arms in an attempt to keep what little heat he had left in his body and searched for something to say. 

“You should have a cloak,” Dean said.

The corners of Castiel’s mouth lifted. “You should have a hat.”

Dean rubbed his hands together under his cloak. “And gloves.”

“Something to keep in mind for later.”

“Yeah.”

The wind covered any sounds from the streets below. It made the awkward silence between Dean and Castiel more noticeable. 

“So--” Dean began.

“Listen--” Castiel started at the same time.

They fell into silence once again. 

“You first,” Dean said. 

Castiel stared into the sky and licked his lips. “I’m sorry.”

He did not continue. Dean waited, thinking there had to be more.

“That’s it?” Dean asked.

“No. It’s just--” Castiel folded his hands in his lap. He lowered his gaze to them, his eyelashes fluttering as he considered his words. “Difficult.”

“What is?”

Castiel sighed along with the wind. “There’s something I need you to understand.”

“Okay.” Dean turned his body towards Castiel, trying to catch his eye. “But you’re gonna have to tell me what.”

“You could spend the rest of your life with me.” Castiel looked up, his eyes blazing blue. “But I cannot spend the rest of mine with yours.”

The words forced the air out of Dean’s lungs. A chill went up his spine, one independent of the winter wind. Dean was unable to formulate a reply. He never considered that fact. Not once. 

“You have a whole life ahead of you,” Castiel said. “You could find someone, raise a family with them, grow old with them.”

“Cas, I don’t--” Dean shuffled closer to Castiel. “I don’t need all that.”

“You say that now. Will you when you’re old and grey and I look the same?” 

“Cas, that’s--”

“Dean, listen. I care about you. I think I always will. I plan to remain by your side as long as you will allow me.” Castiel’s gaze bored into Dean’s soul. “I need you to carefully consider in what capacity that will be.”

Dean wanted to say it was just a kiss and that there was no need to be so serious. 

But it was not just a kiss and it was very serious. 

Dean slid closer to Castiel. “You care about me, huh?”

“Yes. Is that a surprise?”

“Nah. It’s nice to hear it, though.” Dean bumped his shoulder against Castiel. “Same here.”

Side by side, Dean and Castiel watched the snow drift onto the streets below. Dean pressed closer to Castiel’s warmth.

“You had me worried,” Dean said. “Try not to run off on me again, okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m a mess without you, you know.”

Castiel cast Dean a sidelong glance. “You seem fine.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re here.” Dean closed his eyes. There was a serious truth behind his flippant remark. He decided to elaborate. “The five years you were, uh, missing? I drank too much. I liked to pick fights. I had many-- um-- casual acquaintances?”

“I’m aware. The recruits like to talk.”

“Oh. That doesn't bother you?”

“No.” Castiel tilted his head. “Does it bother you?”

“Sometimes.” Dean rubbed his clammy palms on his thighs. “I was stationed in this town for a month-- zombies-- and I met this girl, Cassie. She was smart, fearless, gorgeous, and knew when to call me out on my bullshit.” Dean winked at Castiel. “I got a type. Anyway, we spent two weeks together. Felt like I was a ship on stormy seas. Thought I was in love. Maybe I was. I don’t know but--”

When Dean stopped speaking, Castiel allowed him a moment to collect his thoughts. Once enough time had passed Castiel prompted, “But?”

“She broke it off,” Dean said. “Claimed my job made being together too hard. She was probably right but I turned it into a big fight at the time. Before she kicked me out of her house and slammed the door in my face, she said that I was always holding back. She said that it seemed like I was thinking about someone else.”

“What did you do?”

“Denied it. Got mad. Chopped off a bunch of zombies' heads. Returned to the Capital and got very, very drunk.” Dean kicked his feet, knocking the snow on the edge of the roof down to the ground. “She was right, though. I was thinking about someone else.” 

Castiel may have already known the answer, but he still asked, “Who?” 

“C’mon, Cas. It was you. It’s always been you.” Dean reached out, taking one of Castiel’s hands between both of his own. “You tell me I have to think about this. But I have. A lot. I already have my answer.”

“Dean.” Castiel stared down at their joined hands, struggling to speak. “I--”

“But If _you_ need time to think about it, that’s fine. I can wait.” Dean rested his head on Castiel’s shoulder. “Even if I have to wait until I’m old and grey and you look the same.” 

Castiel said nothing else but he wrapped his free arm across Dean’s waist and kept hold of his hand. Even surrounded by ice, snow, and winter wind, Dean felt warm pressed against Castiel’s side. 


	43. Old Friends

The worst of the winter storms were over. For the whole season, all recruits, knights, blacksmiths, and healers prepared and trained for the coming battle. The majority of the castle staff and Capital citizens endured the fervour with minimal complaint. They knew something was coming, something big, something Realm shattering. However, the people grew restless with each passing day, each time the sun hung in the sky for longer, each time another request for raw materials came. It was time to make an announcement. It was time to march. It was time for the Grand Finale.

When Dean suggested that King Adam prepare an announcement, he did not realize he would be the one to make the speech. In less than two weeks, Dean had to figure out a way to convince a war-weary population that it was time to head to battle one last time. He had to convince them that this time, finally, it would be the end of the Long War. Unfortunately, the people of the Realm have heard such assertions from birth to death across generations. 

“I should’ve kept my mouth shut,” Dean said to Charlie as they crossed the castle grounds to the dining hall.

“Well, it makes sense,” Charlie said. “You trained, like, all of the army and, y’know, you can be charismatic when you want to.”

“Why, Charlie, that sounds suspiciously like a compliment.” 

“Don’t get too used to it.”

Dean’s answering chuckle was short lived. A large, well-armed crowd gathered outside the castle gates. The guards on duty tried to push the crowd back, wary of their weapons. Everyone spoke at once. Arguments overlapped each other and no one could get their point across. Dean signalled for Charlie to keep her distance then carefully approached the gate. 

An older man, with dark skin, greying hair, and a commanding presence wrestled his way to the front. He curled his fingers around the metal gate and watched Dean’s movements, his lips pulled into a thin line. When the guards deferred to Dean, the man singled Dean out and spoke.

“Hey, kid,” he said. “You know a Dean Winchester?”

Dean stepped closer to the gate, not breaking eye contact. “Who’s asking?”

“What? You castle types put out a call for mercs then don’t even let us in?”

“You’re mercs?”

“Yeah.” He dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword. “This ain’t just for show.” 

Dean observed the man’s confident stance borne from years of experience and whistled. “I believe it. I’m Dean Winchester.”

“Rufus Turner.” He gestured behind him. “Since I got the biggest sword, this is my merc company.”

“Rowdy bunch. You get ‘em to quiet down, I’ll let you in to see the Captain.”

“The Captain, you say.” Rufus rubbed his chin. “That wouldn’t happen to be one Bobby Singer, would it?”

“The one and only.”

Rufus scoffed. “Figures. That bastard’s too stubborn to retire. Or die.”

Before Dean could reply, Rufus turned to the crowd behind him, still shouting and arguing. He put his fingers to his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle. One by one, the group cut off their noise, faced Rufus, and readied for his commands. 

“Alright! Listen up!” Rufus waited until every eye focused on him. “Act right while you’re here or you don’t get paid. Got it?” A current of agreement ran through the crowd. “I’m going in. Behave yourselves.” He pointed to a blonde woman in battle-dented armour. “You’re with me.”

Quieted, the rest of the group backed away. Dean nodded to the guards to raise the gate. Rufus and his companion entered the castle grounds. 

After Dean finished giving orders to the guards, he planned to lead the new arrivals to the Captain’s office right away. Instead, he froze when he saw the blonde woman. She overwhelmed him with a sense of familiarity. Yet, at the same time, she felt like a stranger.

The blonde smirked. “You grew up.”

Dean eyed her, his head tilting in a very Castiel-like fashion. Her hair was close-cropped. The armour and sword she carried spoke to the many battles she both fought and won. Her brown eyes sparkled with undisguised amusement at Dean’s confusion. The expression stirred something within Dean’s memories but it still took him a few moments to reconcile the skinny village girl he remembered with the muscled warrior before him. 

“J--” Dean could hardly believe it. “Jo?”

Joanna Beth Harvelle shrugged, a faint hint of her old shyness. “I grew up too.”

“No kidding. You know Ellen’s worried sick about you, right?”

Jo bit her lip and dropped her gaze. “She alright?”

“Well, yeah but--”

“Dean!” Charlie joined them, making no effort to hide her obvious interest in Jo. “You gonna introduce me to your friend?”

To Rufus and Jo, Dean said, “This is Charlie.” He turned to Charlie. “These are mercs. Rufus and Jo.”

“Jo?” Charlie raised an eyebrow at Dean. He nodded, confirming she was the Jo from his stories. Charlie hummed. “Wow. Dean never told me you were so… strong.”

“It’s been a few years since he saw me,” Jo said. “I’ve… learned a lot since those days.”

Charlie swallowed.

“Do you think you could catch up and flirt once I’m _not_ freezing my balls off?” Rufus asked. 

The authority in Rufus’s voice brought Dean to attention, just as he would for the Captain. Jo reacted much in the same way, speaking to her history of working with Rufus. Even Charlie paused.

“Right,” Dean said. He pointed down the path to the training grounds. “This way.” 

⁂

The clothes were stored. The bed was made. The dust had been wiped away. 

All Sam needed to do was organize his desk. He inspected the chaotic mess of balled up papers, haphazard stacks of books, and inkblot stains, gaining a sudden appreciation for Dean’s tidy habits growing up. 

While it was the last thing he wanted to do, Sam went to work. He did not want Jessica to return to a dirty room after a long shift. The last thing a maid would want to do when she returned home was to do even more cleaning.

Jessica moved into the castle right after the ceremony. Sam’s room was big enough for the two of them. Or three. Or four.   
  
Sam gathered the loose papers into an even stack in the middle of the desk. The balled up papers went into the bin. He placed some of the books on the back shelf and the rest in a pile to return to the library. Over an hour later, he could see that his desk was, in fact, made out of wood. 

He reached into the dark, dusty recess that was the back of his desk, a place he had not seen since he first moved into his room. As he poked his dusting cloth into the corners, the back of his hand brushed across familiar soft leather. He gripped it and slid it into the light.

The book Ruby gave Sam all those years ago-- back in Lawerence when he was a boy-- shone like it did when he first saw it after he wiped away the dust. He ran his fingers along the spine, soft and worn from a younger, smaller Sam Winchester. The older Sam Winchester marvelled. He thought he lost the book during the move from Andrea’s Tavern to the castle. Opening the book, he saw his old notes and observations written in a childlike hand-- some notations were correct, others were far off the mark-- and smiled. 

It took a lot of work and many missteps, but Sam had come a long way since those days. 

The door no longer squeaked when it opened. Sam finally oiled the hinges. Jessica stopped in the doorway, her apron streaked with dirt, and gasped. Sam turned around at the sound.

“You’re back already?” Sam shut the book and hurried to her side to kiss her cheek.

“You--” Jessica surveyed the room from one end to the other. “You cleaned up in here.”

“Yeah.” Sam wrung his hands together. “Yeah. You like it?”

Jessica stepped into the room. She observed the painting Sam hung over the fireplace-- the first one she gave him-- and gave Sam an incredulous look.

“I can’t believe you saved that,” Jessica said.

“Hey, now,” Sam said, “that’s gonna be worth something when you’re a famous artist.”

Jessica laughed the question off, but a pink tinge coloured her cheeks. She continued further into the room. A bright yellow blanket folded at the foot of the bed caught her eye. Touching the soft material, tears welled in her eyes. On the bottom of the blanket, embroidered in black thread, was the name “Rose Moore.”

“This was my mother’s,” she whispered, “I thought I lost it.”

Sam joined Jessica, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You forgot it when you left. I put it in storage.”

A single tear rolled down Jessica’s face. “I love you.”

She pulled Sam into her arms, ready to show him just how much.

⁂

The cabin was abandoned. Its state of disrepair suggested it had been for a while. Castiel picked his way around the broken glass in the kitchen, his boots echoing in a hollow sound as he checked every room. 

Meg was nowhere to be found. 

“Anything?” Balthazar asked when Castiel emerged from the cabin.

Castiel shook his head. “Just a few broken bottles.”

“Any idea where’d she go?”

“No.” 

“Maybe she went into hiding. Seems like something she’d do.”

“Maybe.” Castiel stepped onto the sand. “We should start on those maps.”

Balthazar waved his parchment in the air like a flag, then headed off into the trees. Castiel went in the opposite direction, to the coast. By the time the sun dipped into the horizon, Castiel managed to record the basic shape of the beach. 

On his way to meet back up with Balthazar, the cabin looked to be a looming shadow. While Castiel was somewhat relieved that Meg would be safe from the battle, he could not shake the odd sense of disappointment that took him over when he entered the empty residence. 

Castiel did not have many friends. Neither did Meg. She could have said goodbye. She could have left a note. 

Balthazar waited at the cabin’s bottom step. “Right back to the castle then?”

“Yes.” Castiel handed his day’s work to Balthazar. “Not much time left now.”

“Work, work, work.” 

In the space between seconds, they arrived at the castle gardens. The nighttime stragglers sitting on the bench jumped at their arrival. The stragglers calmed when they saw the two Celestials. The castle residents were becoming used to Balthazar and Castiel appearing instantly in odd places at strange times. 

“Well,” Balthazar said, holding up the marked parchments, “I got an exciting night ahead. How about you?”

“Records,” Castiel said.

“Oh, fun. See you around.” 

Balthazar disappeared right in front of Castiel. Castiel rolled his eyes. A wasted gesture, perhaps, but it gave Castiel some small measure of satisfaction. 

Since his return from Purgatory, Castiel had begun to keep a journal of sorts-- records, as he called it-- in which he tried to write down all the information he knew about Celestials and Creatures of the Night. The pages he wrote had been passed through the scholar's hands and they were pestering him for more. Castiel figured that was a sign they were useful. 

The fresh ink and paper he requested that morning awaited Castiel, laid out neatly on his desk. Castiel walked past it when he entered his room. Embers glowed in the fireplace. Someone had made sure his room would be warm and inviting upon his return. As he stripped off his sword and armour and put on a nightshirt, he sent out a silent thanks to that person. Perhaps, in the morning, he would find them and thank them.

Castiel intended to do his work, he really had, but the bed was so much more inviting. It had been days since he rested, weeks since he had sat for more than a meeting, and even longer since he slept. A crushing wave of fatigue threatened to topple Castiel to the floor. Before it could, he climbed into bed and allowed himself to drift away under their soft, comforting weight. 

Sleep came easily. So did the dreams.

Castiel stood on the beach, Dean on one side of him and Sam on the other. A wall of opaque white fog obstructed his view of anything beyond arm's length. He heard the clash of swords, the snarl of Creatures, and fluttering wings.

He smelled Death.

Dean turned his head. His lips moved but Castiel could not hear him over the battle. Sam opened his mouth to reply. Blood poured from it.

Castiel tried to lunge forward, to pull the glittering Celestial sword from Sam’s chest, but he could not move. 

Dean stared blankly at his dying brother. He did not react to the Metatron appearing before him. The Metatron grinned, drunk with power, his white wings shimmering with the light of Creation behind his back. The Metatron did not carry a sword. He used his hands to reach into Dean’s chest and rip out his heart.

Castiel could not run to Dean. All he could do was turn his head from one dying brother to the other. 

A pale, skeletal man stood behind Sam, his body flickering like a ghost. A woman stood behind Dean, her long dark fingers curled around his shoulder. They were patient as they waited for the brothers to bleed, as they waited for their lives to end.

Castiel saw Death.

The embers in the fireplace had gone cold by the time Castiel awoke. Castiel stared into the darkness, his eyes wide and unblinking.

He always had nightmares. He was not psychic. He was not a prophet. Yet, he was still unsettled.

In bare feet, Castiel left his room and walked across the cold stone floor to Dean’s room. Castiel leaned his forehead against the wooden door, trying to hear the life of the person on the other side.

He heard nothing over the blood rushing in his ears. He pounded on the door before he thought better of it.

A groggy Dean answered the door, about to complain about the rude awakening. Any complaint was forgotten when he saw Castiel stricken face, pale under the flickering hallway torches. Castiel placed his hand against Dean’s chest, felt his heart beating strong and healthy underneath intact flesh and blood. Castiel sagged in relief. 

“Just a dream,” Castiel whispered. “It was just a dream.” 

In the threshold of Dean’s room, Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean. Castiel pressed his ear against Dean’s chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart. Confused, tired, and more than a little worried, Dean rested his chin on Castiel’s hair and held him close.

They stayed there for a long time.


	44. Kneel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, this one right here, is what made me write this whole thing in the first place! We're finally here.  
> ......  
> Also, this is the chapter with smut in it, lol. If you need your acts tagged, it's a blowjob with some light frottage. Y'know, for seasoning.  
> Have fun ;)

The wind still had a bite to it but the bright sunshine suggested spring was on its way. Every other year, the Realm greeted the season's change with cheer. This particular year, however, there was a current of apprehension.

Or maybe it was Dean's perception colouring the mood.

The stage was set. The high afternoon sun meant the time was ripe. The training grounds were open for all. The constant stream of people through the open gates made one wonder if the entire Capital jumped at the chance to hear the announcement. 

Oh, Dean did not like thinking that. 

Hidden in the shadows behind the stage, Dean watched as people were directed to their proper places by knights in formal armour. He watched the servants place the King's seat at the back of the stage-- less a throne and more an ornate chair with gold leaf on the armrests-- and watched Pamala, in charge of security, direct her troops. 

"You're gonna be fine, Dean." Sam slapped a hand against Dean's back. "Just breathe."

"Just breathe," Dean mocked. "Easy for you to say. You just gotta stand there."

Sam was to stand behind Dean, along with Ash, Garth, the Captain, and Rufus, in a symbolic show of support that demonstrated that the castle was unified. From his chair behind them all, the king would oversee the whole thing. 

"Hey, now," Sam said, "don't underestimate the power of moral support."

Dean groaned and clutched at his stomach. He glanced around the area. People scurried every which way, rushing to get everything in place before the king's arrival. The Captain directed his knights. Rufus stood with his mercenaries, occasionally shouting comparative notes to the Captain. According to Rufus, the mercenaries were a more impressive group. The Captain ignored Rufus, keeping his back to him, but Rufus could tell the Captain rolled his eyes. Pamela inspected the integrity of the stage. Garth spoke to the apprehensive guards, raising spirits as he worked his way down the line. Ash waved from his place among the healers. Sam waved back.

Dean took a deep breath and wished, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that Castiel had joined them. Castiel was supportive of the whole plan but never gave a definitive answer to whether or not he would make an appearance. The Angel's presence would certainly make an impact but it could also undermine the purpose of the announcement. Since the Angel made so few public appearances, the people would be too distracted by him to hear what Dean had to say. Therefore, if the Angel were to make a show of support, it could not be until the end of the proceedings and known to as few people as possible. That way, the people would be drawn to the announcement for the message, not to get a glimpse of their living legend.

Castiel had explained all this to the war room group and multiple times to Dean privately, but Dean did not want Castiel there as the Angel. Dean just wanted Castiel there. With Sam as his rock and Castiel as his anchor, Dean could do anything. However, with one part of the equation missing, he felt unbalanced. It was hard to catch his breath.

"Have you seen Cas at all today?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean said. "I bet he's hiding from the public."

"Maybe." Sam gave Dean a concerned look. "You're not gonna collapse on me, right?"

"Hope not." Dean took a shaky, uneven breath. "But, uh, keep your herbs on standby, okay?" 

Sam opened his mouth, about to tell Dean he did not have anything in his pockets, when the troubadours received their cue. As soon as the horns rang, the last of the servants scampered out of the way and the last few arrivals took their places. Everyone turned expectantly to the castle entrance.

Flanked by two heavily armed knights, the King emerged. Crown sitting comfortably upon his head, King Adam walked among the people on his journey to the stage. The people cleared the way and dropped to their knees as he passed. 

The two knights stopped at the stairs at the front of the stage, standing guard as the king ascended. Pamela and Captain Singer took over when King Adam reached the stage and led him to his chair. When he sat, the troubadours lowered their horns and the people climbed to their feet.

The king allowed the anticipatory silence to ring. Then, with a wave of his hand, the announcement participants emerged from the shadows to the bright daylight at centre stage. Sam grabbed Dean's arm to pull him along.

Captain Singer stepped forward and began the introductions. His words resounded over the crowd, full of life and hope and honour. The Captian had a lot of experience enrapturing a crowd and it showed in the people's faces. Unlike the weary old speech he used for the fresh recruits each year, Captain Singer's words were new and tempered with the steel of his conviction. He believed in his cause. The people could hear it.

Dean, on the other hand, heard none of it. He wrung his hands, going over the words of his speech in his head. They were ingrained upon his very soul with how many times he repeated them but he still worried. The best minds in the Capital helped Dean put together those words, yet there was something that didn't feel right to Dean. Sam told him it was just nerves. Dean was not so sure. 

All too soon, the Captain's introductions were over. It took a combined effort from Sam and Pamela to make Dean notice and move forward. 

Looking down at all those expectant faces, Dean thought for sure he was falling. "Uh, hi. I'm Dean Winchester. Uh--"

He scanned the crowd. In the distance, he saw a shock of red hair, the owner of which raised her hand in greeting. Another arm, belonging to the bowed head beside her, moved when she grabbed hold of it. A smile snuck onto Dean's face. Charlie did manage to get Kevin out of the library. Dean owed Sam a copper. 

"I know you heard this one before," Dean continued, "but you've never heard it from me. This is it, my friends. We are going to end the Long War."

A low murmur ran through the crowd. They were expecting that information. They were not expecting it so bluntly stated.

Dean launched into his prepared speech. The words came out hollow. He knew it. The people behind him knew it. The audience knew it.

There were fighters, mercenaries, and knights in the audience but the majority of the eyes watching him were just plain old citizens. They were mothers with their children at their hips, fathers with tension in their shoulders, vendors with gold rings on their fingers, and elders with a stoop in their spine. They did not sign up to fight. They did not ask to be part of the War. They were just people-- everyday people who were trying to survive-- with hopes and dreams and families they loved. Dean asked them to trust, to work, to give their lives. Dean asked them to risk all they had. A prepared, hollow speech was not enough to convince them. 

"Listen," Dean said, attempting to recapture the people, "this is hard. I know this is hard. I know I'm asking for too much. I have a family, too. I have people I love"-- He glanced behind him to Sam, then out to the crowd looking for red hair and hoping for blue eyes-- "who are putting everything on the line. We need anything you can give: time, supplies, your bodies. I don't have the right to ask but I must. The Long War will end. In order to do that, we need you." Dean bowed his head. "Please."

The commotion started as a murmur. Some people did not approve of Dean's informal, off-script message. Others appreciated the personal touch. Many were still offended by the thought of working with the Awakened Creatures. Scholars would debate for years about the speech, about whether Dean said the correct thing, but all of them agreed that Dean's words were the start of a new chapter in the Realm's history.

However, at the time Dean stood, staring out over the growing restlessness of the crowd, he started to regret his decision. The citizens began to argue, the murmurs became shouts. Those who agreed with Dean's message cried out their support. Those who disagreed yelled their displeasure. Others, the ones who just wanted to live their lives, weighed their options and sought escape routes.

The knights looked to the Captain. The Captain looked to the king. The king looked out at the chaos and steepled his fingers, waiting to see if he should curb the commotion. 

Before King Adam could call upon the knights, the rapid current of dissent subsided. It started at the very back of the crowd and worked its way toward the stage, like a mighty wave lapping to shore. As the crowd began to quiet, everyone-- the citizens on all sides of the argument, the knights trying to quell a possible riot, the king and his representatives on the stage-- turned to see the source of the calm. 

In shining dark metal armour inlaid with golden wings across his shoulders, the Angel walked through the crowd. The sea of people parted in the middle, allowing him to pass unimpeded on his voyage to the stage. Excited shouts sounded from every place in the crowd when they saw the Angel's golden, glittering sword swaying at his hip.

They called him the Angel.

Once the Angel reached the stage, the crowd scurried back into place. For many, it was the first time they had seen him. Most everyone in attendance had heard his legend, many more had grown up on stories about him. They waited, silent, breathless, to see what he would do. 

Dean blinked to clear his eyes, beholding the figure before him. He hardly believed it was Castiel. The sunlight highlighted the well-made armour and Castiel stood with his back straight and his head held high. 

No longer did Castiel try to blend with the crowd. No longer did he hide his sword. No longer did he shy away from people of the Realm. The Realm needed an Angel and the Angel he would give them.

"Wha--" Dean began. 

Castiel placed a finger against his lips, cutting Dean off. Hand resting on the hilt of his sword, Castiel faced Dean head on, a command in his eyes. Dean turned to him, shaking slightly from the eyes upon him and the intensity of the crowd, and stood tall. Castiel held him there with his stare, allowing the silent anticipation to reach its height.

Castiel drew his sword, the sound echoing over the crowd, perhaps to be heard through the entire Capital. The sun glinted off the blade as Castiel held it lengthwise between both hands. He raised it above his head so the crowd could see, then lowered it to his chest and held it out to Dean. He held Dean's gaze for one long moment, until every eye in the Capital lay upon them. 

Castiel kneeled.

The Capital released its breath all at once. Dean's heart pounded in his chest as he stared down at the kneeling Castiel-- the kneeling Angel-- and realized what it meant.

Everyone knew the legend. The Angel did not kneel. Yet, on that day, with every citizen of the Capital being witness, the Angel knelt before Dean.

Seeing Dean's wide eyed stare, Sam knew something had to be done. He waved to attract the attention of those standing beside him. Ash, Rufus, Pamela, Garth, and the Captain nodded their understanding then, as one, they kneeled.

A flurry of activity followed. The king stood from his chair and bowed his head. The knights fell to their knees. The recruits were quick to follow them. The citizens looked around, saw people following suit, and made their choice. 

The citizens tapped each other on the shoulder, helped the elders to the ground, showed children how to bend, and nodded to each other over the sea of people. One by one, like a series of waves brought about by a strong wind, the people bowed their heads.

And kneeled.

⁂

Sitting crossed-legged on the rug in front of the fireplace in his room, Castiel watched the flames dance and crackle. The heat threatened to burn him. His armour rested in the new stand in the corner of the room and, with its weight removed, Castiel finally had time to reflect on the day.

He was not alone. 

Similarly subdued, Sam perched on the edge of the bed. After the announcement, he spent the rest of the day fielding an endless stream of new volunteers. The people were inspired. Young and old, trained and untrained, the citizens of the Capital wanted to help. By the time night fell, Sam was still trying to find places for everyone. He only stopped because Ash ordered him to rest. For once in his life, Sam did not argue. 

Charlie, under the excuse of moral support, joined Sam on his way back to the castle. She decided to visit Castiel when she saw the open door to his room. Castiel did not complain when she grabbed the desk chair and joined him by the fire. She hugged one leg against her chest and rested her head on her knee. With all the late nights and long days she endured to finish Castiel’s armour, she rounded out the exhausted picture.

“You know,” Charlie said, after a long, sustained silence, “had I known you were gonna do a big display like that, I would’ve given you a shiner belt.”

“Your work has far exceeded my expectations,” Castiel said. “There’s no need to change anything.”

“Oh,” Charlie squeaked. She cleared her throat. “Thanks! And, uh, you’re-- you’re welcome.” 

Castiel inclined his head, the flickering flames wreathing his head in a halo of soft light. 

“Cas,” Sam began. He waited for a hum of acknowledgment before continuing. “What you did. That-- It--”

“Was necessary.” 

“Well, yeah, I know. It’s just-- I mean--” Sam broke off with a sigh and slouched, fighting the urge to flop onto the bed. “I am too damn tired for words. Basically, you just made an entire population go to war. Every one of them were looking at Dean.”

“They’ll follow him.”

“I know! It’s just-- It’s just that it’s a lot of lives. A lot of--”

Castiel’s expression did not change, nor did he look away from the fire. He did not raise his voice. However, the edge in his words, sharper than his sword, made Sam and Charlie sit up and listen. “It is not a burden I share lightly. Believe me.” 

In the weeks leading up to the announcement, Castiel considered his options. He knew that, in his capacity as the Angel, his support would carry considerable weight. He also knew, from his history and experience, that considerable weight would become a heavy burden on whomever he chose to back. 

Of course, he knew that person would be Dean. Castiel did not want to trouble Dean any more than needed. Therefore, he decided to join the crowd to view the announcement, a cloak over his armour, and chose to gauge the public’s reaction and whether or not his involvement became necessary. 

It was necessary.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Fair enough.” 

“True,” Charlie said, “but I’m pretty sure Dean’s gonna come rushing in here on the warpath pretty soon.”

“I’m sure,” Castiel said.

“You want backup?”

“He won’t hurt me. Nor I him.” Castiel glanced at Charlie, letting his appreciation for her offer show in his slightly upturned lips. “I can handle him.”

Charlie nodded and the group lapsed back into silence. All three focused on the fireplace, hardly seeing the flames. With the group so quiet, they should have heard the sound of approaching footsteps. They should have perceived the door opening. Sitting with their back to the door, lost in their thoughts, they did not notice Dean’s entrance into Castiel’s room. 

They did, however, notice when Dean marched right up to Castiel and yanked him to his feet by the shirt collar.

Castiel went along with it willingly, allowing Dean to grab both his shoulders and spin them both around. He allowed Dean to push him across the rug, right past the shocked Charlie, and shove him against the wall. Dean pressed in close, grabbing fistfuls of Castiel’s shirt to hold him in place, and did not say a word. 

Behind Dean and Castiel, Charlie looked at Sam. Sam looked at Charlie. In unison, they stood and hurried from the room.

Dean waited until he heard the door latch closed before he launched into his interrogation, “Cas. What was that? What were you thinking? Why that? Why-- Why me?”

Castiel’s response came calm and even, “The people needed someone to rally behind. They will follow you.”

“I know! I mean, why that? You don’t kneel for anyone. And then you--” Dean swallowed. “Why me?”

“You know why.”

Dean’s grip on Castiel loosened. He smoothed the bunched up shirt fabric with his fingers, giving him an excuse to look away from Castiel’s intense stare. Dean did not back up. Castiel made no move to break free from his place against the wall.

“I don’t care about the Angel stuff,” Dean said. “I don’t need-- I don’t _want_ you to kneel for me.”

“You are the only person to whom I will kneel.” Castiel touched his fingers to Dean’s chin, forcing him to look up. There, with their faces so close their noses touched, Dean could see everything-- every thought, every emotion, every feeling-- written in Castiel’s eyes. Running his fingers along Dean’s jaw, Castiel whispered, “You know why.”

Castiel closed the scant distance between them and placed a quick, soft kiss on Dean’s lips. Dean did not let Castiel leave, returning the gesture with one of his own. The third time, they moved in sync, coming together at the same time, with the same breathless need. 

This time, Castiel had no intention of running. He took everything Dean was willing to give-- and it was everything-- allowing himself to take what he wanted back in the stables. With the battle to end the War a short time away, Castiel knew that, for many people, it would be their final battle. He knew it could be his-- or Dean’s, though he shuddered to think of it-- and he no longer wanted to waste what little time they had left. 

War had a way of bringing people together. Castiel finally understood what that meant.

“Cas, you--” Dean gasped when Castiel kissed a line up his jaw. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“I know,” Castiel murmured, his lips against Dean’s ear, “but I want to. I want to show you why I kneel.“ Castiel grabbed Dean’s hips, pulling him flush against his body. Dean’s breath hitched when he felt Castiel’s growing arousal. “That is, if you’d allow me.”

“Yes,” Dean unhesitatingly replied. “Fuck. Yes.”

Castiel chuckled, deep with need. In one fluid movement, Castiel spun Dean around. As soon as Dean’s back hit the wall, he had more Castiel in his arms than he thought possible. Castiel was everywhere: his hands running under Dean’s shirt to tease his skin, his lips kissing Dean with urgent need, his thigh wedging in between Dean’s legs to relieve the building pressure. They moved together, grabbing, grinding, eager for more, more, more.

Once he had Dean gasping and breathless, Castiel broke away from Dean and flattened his palms against the wall on either side of Dean's head. Castiel made sure they did not touch. Unable to suppress his smile at Dean’s noise of protest at the loss of contact, Castiel drank in the sight before him. He wanted to commit the sight of Dean’s flushed, freckled cheeks and lust-darkened eyes to memory. 

Dean reached for Castiel, impatient at Castiel’s delay. Castiel caught Dean’s hands and pinned his arms above his head. The action made Dean release a soft, involuntary whimper and the sound sent a shiver down Castiel’s body, landing right between his legs. Castiel could not wait anymore. He needed to hear that sound again. He needed to hear it louder.

Transfixed by the glimmer in Castiel’s eyes, Dean let his arms fall loosely to his sides when Castiel released them. Castiel ran his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip and raised an eyebrow which promised wonderful, wicked things were about to happen. Dean nodded his answer to the silent question, eager. 

Castiel kneeled.

Castiel’s nimble fingers made quick work of the laces on Dean’s trousers. Licking his lips at the sight of Dean’s erection straining against his smallclothes, Castiel wasted no time pulling the fabric down. He took Dean’s length in hand, savouring the warm weight, and gazed up at Dean from below. Dean stared down at Castiel, obviously fighting the urge to thrust into Castiel’s hand. The vision made Castiel give Dean a few teasing strokes. The resulting moan made Castiel want-- no need-- to take Dean into his mouth. 

So he did.

There was nothing Castiel enjoyed more than hearing his partner’s pleasure. Dean was a very responsive partner, indeed. Castiel took his time, teasing Dean, learning what movements made Dean gasp, and how much pressure made him moan. Every sound caused the heat within Castiel to build and soon, Castiel responded to each once with a deep, needy groan of his own.

“Cas.” Dean gripped Castiel’s hair, demanding attention. Dean gasped when Castiel released him with a pop. “Come here.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no. _Definitely_ not. Just--” Dean tugged Castiel’s hair. “Just come here.” 

Castiel rose to his feet. Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and pulled him close. Burying his face in Castiel’s neck, Dean trembled. Castiel held Dean, waiting for Dean to calm.

“Are you well?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah, yeah. I just, uh--” Dean cleared his throat. “Needed you.”

“I’m here.”

“You sure are. Could we, uh, take this to the bed?” 

“Of course.”

They moved together, removing their clothing upon the way. A trail of fabric marked their route to the bed and, by the time they fell onto the blankets, they had nothing left to remove. 

Castiel ached with need, and he could see Dean’s body begging for Castiel’s touch, but he matched the pace Dean set. They lay on their sides, facing each other, exchanging light touches and soft kisses. Dean ran his hands over every inch of Castiel’s body, his face full of wonder, tracing over every muscle and every scar. When he reached Castiel’s back, and touched the top of angry red lines marring his skin, Dean griped Castiel tight and held him close. Dean stayed still.

“Dean?” 

“You’re here.” Dean hooked his thigh around Castiel’s waist. “You’re home.”

Dean rolled his hips, giving them both the contact they needed. They moved in together, a perfect dance. Castiel held Dean’s hips, his fingers digging into the flesh, leading Dean to the perfect rhythm, to the perfect amount of pressure. 

After so many years alone-- after so many years disinterested in the touch of himself or another-- Castiel was quickly overwhelmed. He cried out, his body threatening to burst into a million pieces, but Dean held him together. Dean, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he tried to hold himself back, watched Castiel as his pleasure overwhelmed him. 

As Dean beheld the sight before him, he had much the same look as those who had seen the face of God. Dean no longer held himself back. He shuddered, then went taut as a bowstring, his lips forming Castiel's name but not making a sound. When Dean came to rest, he lay in Castiel’s arms, shuddering with relief. 

For a long, blissful moment, they breathed together, spent and satisfied. In a little while, they would have to move, have to clean up and move under the covers to sleep. But, for that long, blissful moment, all they needed to do was be together.


	45. The Future

“No. You’re not going.”

“Yes I am, Sam. My mom’s gonna be there.”

“And we will help her. I promised you, remember?”

Kevin groaned, loud enough that the scholars at the nearest library table took note of whispered argument. “I’m not stupid. I don’t plan on fighting. I don’t want to. But I can help. You’ve been teaching me about herbs. And who else has the whole prophecy memorized?” 

“No. I--” It was Sam’s turn to groan. Kevin had a point, so Sam’s refusal was weak. “I said no. You’re just a kid.”

“Oh, come on! You were the same age as me when you started drinking the sangu--”

“Whoa!” Sam jumped from his seat and hit the table with the flat of his hands. The sound caused the already quiet library to become completely silent. The scholars were quick to return to their tasks when they saw Sam’s glare. Once he was reasonably sure they did not have an audience, Sam demanded, in a harsh whisper, “How do you know that? It wasn’t in anything you wrote.”

“The Metatron said to cut it. He felt like that whole plot wasn’t going anywhere.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Are you serious?” 

“Yeah. Sorry you had to live through that.”

“It’s so fucking creepy that you know all that. That _he_ knows that.”

“It’s not like I want to. I don’t like it either.” Kevin crossed his arms, his chin high and defiant. “I‘d rather be at home with my mom trying to stay warm. But I’m not. I’m here because some asshole decided I had to be. I didn’t choose any of that. I _am_ choosing to go to this battle, whether you like it or not. So you might as well let me help.”

Sam sighed and sank back into his seat. The stubborn look on Kevin’s face was familiar to Sam. He saw it in himself once or twice-- or more. There was not a chance Kevin would change his mind. At the very least, if Sam agreed, he could keep Kevin out of the worst trouble. Hopefully.

“Fine,” Sam said, “but you better do what I say and brush up on your knowledge.”

With a smug air, Kevin reached under the table and produced a book. He dropped it on the table with a heavy thump, heading right to work. Sam’s annoyed glance went unnoticed.

Sam wondered if Dean felt like this when they were growing up every time Sam acted like that. Sam wondered if he should apologize.

Nah. 

Dean was just as stubborn. Possibly more. Since Sam had to deal with that, the brothers were even. 

When Sam left the library, Kevin did not look up. Sam hurried through the castle halls. The argument had set him behind schedule and he did not want to miss his next appointment. 

The smile on Jessica’s face when Sam found her by the supply closet lit up his whole day, even with her obvious nerves. With the final battle looming over everyone's heads, worry seeped into the most basic of tasks. Sam greeted Jessica with a kiss.

“Wow. Happy to see you, too,” Jessica said when they parted. She wrung her hands together. “How was your day?”

“I think my past has come back to haunt me in the form of one Kevin Tran.”

“Oh?”

Sam wrapped an arm around Jessica’s waist as they walked to their room. “Was I always so stubborn?”

Jessica snorted, which was all the answer he needed.

“Yeah, yeah. Bad question. How was your day?”

“Oh, you know: scrubbed some floors, cleaned some windows. Not saving the Realm level stuff.” 

“I disagree.” Sam turned the corner to the Angel’s wing. “You work hard and I wanna hear all about it.”

They reached their room. Sam held the door open for Jessica.

“Well, I could do that,” Jessica said, “but I think we have something more important to talk about.”

“Oh?” Sam followed Jessica into the room, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed. “What’s that?”

“Really, Sam?” Jessica unlaced her shoes and removed them, placing them neatly on the floor. “Maybe we should talk about the fact you are going off to war in less than two weeks?”

“Right.” Sam slumped and stared at his hands folded in his lap. “That.”

“And I know you gotta go. I’m not trying to stop you. It’s just--” Jessica jumped to her feet and stood over Sam. She placed her hands over his own and leaned forward, catching his eyes. “It’s just that I’m worried. And, and, and, I only found out today. I mean, it’s sooner than we thought but I--”

Before Jessica’s rapid fire rambling became completely unintelligible, Sam squeezed her hands. “Jess? Is everything okay?”

Jessica took a deep, calming breath. Then, with an expression that was a mix of fear and excited anticipation, she raised Sam’s hands and placed both of his palms flat against her stomach.

A moment passed before Sam figured out her meaning. He sat there, feeling Jessica tremble with nerves. The longer he said nothing, the more her worries grew.

“Wait.” Sam’s outward expression of joy started with a twitch at the corner of his lips. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

Sam’s tentative smile became so wide it threatened to overtake his face. Jessica’s anxiety burst with a sharp shrill giggle. Her eyes welled with tears.

“We’re gonna be parents.” Jessica let her tears fall. “So you better come back to me-- to us-- in one piece. You hear me?”

There was so much Sam wanted to say-- so much Sam _felt_ \-- that all he could do was hold on to Jessica. All he could do was press his ear against Jessica’s stomach and make a silent promise.

Sam would win the War. He would come home. He would make a better life-- a better future-- for his and Jessica’s child. 

⁂

It had not been long since the announcement but Dean had already moved into Castiel’s room. It did not take any real effort. He dragged his trunk in one day, set it against the wall by Castiel’s desk, and that was it. All Castiel did when he noticed the new addition was smile. 

Dean treasured every morning. Castiel did not always sleep. He would spend the night writing his records, continuing his research, or combing over the Metatron’s prophecy. He would work in the bed while Dean slept. Every time Dean opened his eyes, Castiel was beside him. Some mornings, however, Dean would wake up to a sleeping Castiel, arms wrapped around him like he was something precious, something worth holding.

Those were the best mornings. 

On one particular morning, less than two weeks before the march to the grand finale, Dean woke up to Castiel muttering at a stack of loose papers in his hands-- one of the copies Sam made of the Metatron's prophecy. Since the words showed far, far more insight into Dean's, Sam's, and Castiel's lives than any of them were comfortable sharing, the king allowed the prophecy to be read by a select few. There were three copies: Kevin's original, one for Sam, and the last for Castiel. That was three too many, according to Dean. Sam and Castiel agreed.

Warm and comfortable pressed against Castiel's side, Dean did not like the idea of leaving the bed. He had too. There was a lot to do. There was a lot of preparation for the coming battle. There were a lot of tasks and not a lot of time. 

Dean rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. The annoyed furrow between Castiel's brows made Dean raise an eyebrow.

"Something big and dire in there?" Dean asked. 

Castiel huffed, the pages crinkling between his hands. "Metatron calls himself a writer, yet he cannot spell my name."

Dean had not given the prophecy any more than a courtesy skim. Any time he tried to do more, his head felt like it would split open. He figured he would leave that work to Sam. He had no idea what Castiel referred to.

"Uh, what?" Dean asked. 

"Look." Castiel shoved a piece of paper into Dean's hands, jabbing a finger against a passage. "C-A-S-S. Where did he get that extra letter?"

Dean looked at the page. Sure enough, right in his own dialogue, was Castiel's nickname with an extra letter 'S.' Dean glanced up at Castiel, saw the furrow in his brow grow deeper, and attempted to suppress the laughter that bubbled in his throat.

"Dude! I thought--" Dean swallowed and tried to keep his voice under control. "I thought there was something important."

"It is important."

Dean no longer bothered to hold back his laughter. 

"Well," Castiel said, throwing the papers onto the nightstand, "I'm glad you find this humorous." 

Castiel's face was stern but his eyes held an amused glimmer. Dean sat up, remembering that glimmer from the very first time he and Castiel met. Dean had never forgotten it.

Sometimes it overwhelmed Dean just how lucky he was to have Castiel by his side. Castiel had been across all of time, across all of the Realm, across the skies and the seas, and he chose to come to rest at Dean's side. 

Dean touched Castiel. He touched this incredible Celestial, this legendary Angel, this impossible individual who somehow decided that Dean-- a lowly human who spent most of his life in tiny Lawrence-- was worthy of his devotion.

Dean climbed into Castiel's lap and left kisses on his forehead, the corners of his eyes, his lips. Dean did it to feel Castiel's warmth, his strength, his heart. Dean released a contented sigh when they wrapped their arms around each other. They fit into each other perfectly. 

And Dean remembered that, while Castiel was all those things, he was still just a guy.

"As much as I would prefer to stay here," Castiel whispered against Dean's lips, "I believe you have an audience with the king this morning."

Dean's next sigh was less content. "I'm sure I could be a _little_ late."

Castiel ran his hands down Dean's naked chest and rested them on his hips. Dean shivered when Castiel added pressure.

"You and I both know it would not just be 'a little.'" Castiel's lips brushed against Dean's ear, his voice low with promise when he continued, "Don't worry, I'll make it up to you tonight."

"Great," Dean said. "You know I'm gonna be thinking about that all day, right?"

Digging his fingers into Dean's skin, Castiel bucked up against Dean, once. "I know."

"You smug bastard." 

Castiel chuckled, low and full of potential, and Dean really would miss his meeting if he did not finally leave the bed. Reluctantly, Dean detangled from Castiel. He headed to his pile of clothes by the door, feeling Castiel's eyes on him all the while. 

Wiggling his hips before he pulled his trousers up, Dean looked over his shoulder and winked. "Like the view?"

With a thoughtful finger against his lips, Castiel said, "Perhaps we should meet up after the noon bell."

Dean smiled. "Absolutely."

That smile never left him. He only realized it when he approached the throne room and Sam saw waiting for him, the expression on his face rather reminiscent of the cat they found digging in Sam's garden back when they were kids. That was how they ended up with a cat named Chamomile for a few years, after Sam treated her herb-induced stomach issues. That was also how Dean leaned cat fur-- especially when it was on his pillow-- made him sneeze.

Once he was beside Sam, Dean asked, "What?" 

"Nothing. Just--" Sam shrugged, far too nonchalant. "Love looks good on you."

The blush spread from Dean's cheeks to the tips of his ears and down to the back of his neck. He tried to stutter out a reply, but none of it made sense. Sam replied with a teasing little brother smile and nodded at the guards to open the door.

"Shut up," Dean managed to mumble to the empty place beside him.

When he realized the only person who heard him with the guard, he muttered a hasty apology before he entered the throne room. The guard smirked, lowering her head to hide it. She did not mind at all. She made a killing in the betting pool.

Sam and Dean took their seats at the table, awaiting the king's arrival. The Winchesters were called for a private meeting. Everyone else worked on their preparations for the march. From sunup to sundown, everyone in the castle did their part to win the war.

"Hey, Dean?" When Dean hummed an acknowledgment, Sam continued, "once you're off-duty tonight, do you think we could go to Andrea's Tavern?"

Dean straightened in his seat and faced Sam, noticing the tension in his brother's shoulders and the hesitant twitch of his lips. 

"Why? Is something wrong?" Dean asked.

"No, no, nothing's wrong." Sam raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I just have some stuff I wanna talk about. We could get a drink."

"You know I don't drink much these days."

"Right! Sorry. I could get a drink. You could get water." Sam's fingers tapped an erratic beat onto the table. "Just come?"

Dean stared at Sam for a moment, concern in his eyes. "Yeah. You're sure everything's alright?"

"Yeah. I mean, as well as things can be at this time." 

Dean was not fully convinced but any further questions had to wait until later. King Adam appeared at the table. Sam and Dean had missed his entrance. When the Winchesters hurried to stand at his arrival, the king raised his hand, allowing them to remain seated. King Adam took his seat, resting his steepled hands on the tabletop, and glanced from one brother to the other.

“Thank you for coming,” King Adam said, “I know you are both busy with preparations.”

“Well, you are the king,” Dean said.

Sam shot Dean a reproachful look, then said, “Of course, Your Majesty.” 

The corner of King Adam’s lip curled upward. “Actually, that’s sort of why I called you here.”

Both the king and Sam noticed the Castiel-like gesture when Dean tilted his head. “I don’t follow.”

“These meetings,” the king said, “they’ve gone well, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“You know: we’d talk over our issues, debate them, and then make a decision based on a vote.” The king bowed his head, staring at his hands. “I've been wondering if that is something that could be implemented on a larger scale-- maybe to the Realm,”

Dean’s tilted head went near sideways. Sam’s jaw dropped.

“Wait. Wait.” Sam turned in his chair to better see the king. “Are you talking about a vote based system?”

“Yes,” the king said. “You’ve heard of it?”

“It-- It’s come up in my research but--”

Dean waved to gain the other two's attention. “Uh, what are you talking about?”

Sam straightened, using his best mentor voice to explain, “A couple of people try to become the ruler of the Ream. The people vote for them. Then, whoever gets the most votes is placed in charge of the country. Of course, it's more complicated than that but that's the basics.” 

“I believe,” King Adam said, “that, once this battle is over, it will be time for a change. The age of kings is over.”

“Hold on,” Dean said. “You’re not expecting people to follow a ruler with no royal blood?”

Making direct eye contact with Sam and Dean in turn, the King said, “I don’t know. I may have had a rocky start, but my analysts tell me I’ve done quite well with the people these last few years.”

The words hung heavy in the air. It was as close an admission as the king-- that Adam-- would ever make. Sam and Dean stared at the king, hearing all the unspoken words in the silence. 

“Of course, I don’t expect to implement it all at once,” the king said, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe I’ll start with the landowners, or those with titles to bring in officials. Ease the people into it. Who knows how the Realm will look in thirty or forty years? I plan to live for a very long time. It’s still my throne, no matter to whom I am related.”

Dean worked his jaw up and down, struggling to find something to say.

Sam was faster to respond, “I-- I guess it’s worth a try.”

King Adam inclined his head. “I encourage you both to consider what you will do when this is all over. You are always welcome to remain here. I would welcome your help.”

Pursing his lips, Dean tried to understand the crushing sense of dread that followed the king’s words. Dean had a hard time thinking about anything more than the preparations for the final battle. He had not stopped to consider what came next. He glanced around the throne room, seeing the chairs, the cold stone walls, and the shining throne of gold and, for the first time, thought about what it would mean to remain.

He closed his eyes and thought about the future. He did not see the castle halls, his empty room, or a sword in his hand. He saw green grass, a room built for two, and a rake in his hands.

He saw home. 

And it was not in the castle. 

“That’s very kind of you,” Sam said. “We’ll consider it.”

Dean never heard Sam’s reply. Struck by the overwhelming need to speak to Castiel, Dean exited the room the instant King Adam dismissed them. He did not say a word, did not glance back to see Sam’s questioning look. 

Ignoring all the states and gasps that followed him down the hall, Dean rushed back to Castiel’s room-- his and Castiel’s room. For the first time since the day Castiel kneeled to him, the whispers hardly bothered Dean. 

They called him the Knight.

One good thing about the new title was they people got out of the way as soon as they saw Dean approach. If Dean made good time, he knew he could catch Castiel before he left with Balthazar for a meeting with Lenore. 

Standing in the open doorway of their room, panting and sweaty, Dean watched Castiel finish strapping his sword to his hips. Castiel’s back was to Dean, giving Dean a chance to catch his breath. When Castiel turned around, Dean found that hard to do once he discovered something he always seemed to forget. 

Castiel’s eyes were blue.

“Dean?” Castiel tilted his head. “Is everything alright?”

Dean blinked rapidly, trying to find the breath he needed to speak. “Let’s retire.”

“What?”

“I-- I mean-- After the battle. Let’s retire.”

Castiel appeared to be dangerously close to dislocating his neck. “Retire.”

“Yeah!” Dean spoke quickly, everything becoming clearer and clearer as he stepped into the room, stepped closer to Castiel. “No more fighting. No more kings. No more legends. Let’s just be _people_ , y'know? Let’s go home.”

Now in Castiel’s space, Dean saw the flash of hope in Castiel’s eyes when he asked, “Home?”

“To Lawrence. We’ll build a house on my land. Maybe get a couple of chickens, plant some wheat or something. Whatever. I don’t know how to farm. I’ll figure it out.” Dean took Castiel’s hands in his own, hesitant in the face of Castiel’s silence. “That-- that is if you want to.”

Castiel stared blankly ahead, long enough for Dean to become worried. Then, Castiel let go of the breath he held. He wrapped his arms around Dean and held him close. 

“Yes. Let’s retire,” Castiel whispered into Dean’s hair. “Let’s go home.”

⁂

Nervously sipping at his second beer, Sam waited for Dean to arrive. The nighttime regulars filtered into Andrea’s Tavern-- mostly off-duty soldiers and civilian volunteers-- one by one. From his corner table, Sam kept his eyes on the door and watched each one arrive. 

When he saw Dean enter the building, Sam downed half his drink. 

Dean sat opposite Sam, a pleased smile on his face when he noticed the water glass waiting for him. Dean took a sip, his back stiff. Several patrons turned to stare at the Knight. Dean acted as if he did not notice. He waited for Sam to speak. 

“How was your day?” Sam asked, his voice high.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Really?” Sam nodded, his head bobbing up and down like a baby bird. Dean rolled his eyes and sighed before he said, “Some old, same old. You know that. Seriously, dude, what’s going on?”

Sam chewed his bottom lip, then decided to just say it. “Jess is pregnant.”

Dean choked on his next sip of water. He set his glass down, slow and careful, then coughed to clear his throat. 

“Wow,” Dean said once he recovered, “you work _fast_.”

“Really didn’t think it’d be this fast.”

“No kidding. How’re you taking it?”

“Nervous.” Sam exhaled sharply through his nose and stared down at the last bit of liquid in his mug. “Terrified. I wish the timing was better.” 

“Understandable.”

“But-- but--” Sam raised his gaze, a wide smile overtaking his face. “I’m so excited. Dean, I am so fucking excited.”

Dean raised his glass, his smile just as big. “Well, congrats, man. Cheers!”

“Cheers!” Sam clinked their glasses together and finished off his beer. 

Dean smiled down at his glass. “Sammy, a father. Who would’ve thought?”

“Seriously, though.” Sam set his empty mug back onto the table. “I just wish I didn’t have to go. I wish I didn’t have to leave Jess while she’s growing an entire human. That’s a lot of work. I wish I could be there. For all I know, the kid’ll be born by the time I get back.”

“You say that like you haven’t already assigned three midwives and two healers to take care of her.”

Sam glared but there was little heat. Dean was correct, after all. 

“So,” Dean said, “what are you hoping for?” 

“Hoping for?”

“Boy or girl. Blue eyes or brown eyes. Knight or nerd.”

“Happy. Healthy. Alive.” Sam pushed his hair back from his face and sighed. “Able to live a life without the constant threat of War.”

“I like that answer.” Dean licked his lips then leaned across the table, his voice low and urgent. “It also means you better come back after all this. If you don’t I’m gonna kick your ass. That is if Jessica doesn’t beat me to it.”

“Same goes to you, by the way. I’ve been meaning to ask: What are you gonna do after all this? What do you think of the king’s offer?”

“I’m not interested.”

“Really? Why not?”

“I’m tired, Sam.” Dean wrapped a hand around his glass. He did not pick it up. “I want to go home.”

“Home?”

“Lawrence.” Dean ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “This is the last battle for me'n Cas.”

“Cas is going with you?” When Dean nodded, tension melted off Sam's shoulders. “Oh, good. That makes me feel better.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m gonna stay. I think I could do a lot of good here. I think the king has the right idea.” 

“You actually believe him?”

“Only time will tell but something tells me he is stubborn enough. After all, he is our broth--”

Dean cut Sam off with a hiss. “Don’t. Don’t say it.”

Sam nodded, recognizing that Dean was not quite ready to process the truth. “But you’re okay with this? That I’m gonna stay?”

Dean picked up his water and downed it in loud gulps. He thumped the glass on the table and heaved a deep sigh. 

“No,” Dean said, “but that shouldn’t stop you. I’m only gonna say this once-- and I’m gonna deny it if you ever bring it up-- so you better listen now. You’re all grown up now. You can make your own decisions.”

Sam sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. “Dean, you--”

“And you better come visit us. You gotta bring your kid to meet their uncles.” Dean leaned back and crossed his arms. “And you better remember: I’m the older brother. That means you gotta listen to me.”

The sound Sam made was a cross between a laugh and a sob. “Yeah. I think, for the first time in my life, I might listen.”

“See?” Dean’s eyes shone wetly in the candlelight. “Grown up.”

A little while later, Sam ordered himself another beer and another water for Dean. They spent the night in Andrea’s Tavern, talking about anything and everything: their future plans, the latest gossip about the castle servants and knights, the fact that neither of them knew much about farming despite the fact they lived in a farming village most of their lives. 

They did not talk about the War. For one night, they chose to ignore it. For one night, they raised their glasses and made a toast to the future.


	46. Heaven Coming Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some bottom Dean at the start of this chapter. It goes until the scene break, in case you need to know. :)

Castiel's hands caressed the sensitive skin of Dean’s back. His lips kissed the nape of Dean’s neck. His thighs bracketed Dean’s hips, squeezing him, rocking him. Dean gasped as he and Castiel moved together, hands searching for something, anything, to hold on to. Castiel thrust deeper into Dean and Dean thought this time, for sure, he would float away. 

Settling the rest of his weight onto Dean, Castiel buried his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. Every hot, laboured breath, every deep, throaty moan that followed Castiel’s increasingly urgent thrusts reverberated through Dean’s body. Each time, Dean pushed his hips back, wanting-- needing-- to hear more.

Their movements became fast, frantic, their need only growing as their bodies became slick with sweat. Castiel ran his hands up Dean’s sides and over his arms. Castiel joined their hands, finally giving Dean something to hold on to.

Dean held those hands, his grip becoming tighter as Castiel moved inside of him. They fit together perfectly. It never failed to amaze Dean. He could do little more than moan Castiel’s name as the pressure built inside of him. He could do little more than grasp Castiel’s hands and try to hold on for a little longer, to give Castiel just a little bit more. 

He endured for as long as he could but then Castiel buried himself into Dean, hard, and moaned his name right in his ear. After that, Dean lost himself in Castiel, lost himself in the feel of their bodies locked together, lost in the knowledge that, at that moment, they were one.

Dean went taut under Castiel, his voice caught in his throat as shockwaves of pleasure pulsated through his body. Finally, everything burst. He moaned, the sound ripped out of him, and he shuddered as the bliss of release took him over. Vaguely, Dean was aware of Castiel pulling out from behind him and spilling over his back. However, he could hear nothing over his heartbeat in his ears or feel anything other than the pleasant aftershocks that made him melt into the bed. 

A wonderful moment passed where Dean had the entirety of Castiel's warm, satisfied weight over him as they waited for their breath to return. All too soon, Castiel left. He returned quickly, however, carrying a cloth. He used it to make sure both of them were clean. 

Afterward, Castiel joined Dean in bed pulling a clean blanket over their cooling bodies. Castiel opened his arms and Dean went to him eagerly, sighing in contentment when Castiel ran his hands up and down Dean’s spine. 

On that particular night, Dean and Castiel held each other closer, clung to each other with more desperation.

“Tomorrow,” Dean whispered.

Castiel hummed, carding his hand through Dean’s hair. “Tomorrow we march.”

“Hey, Cas.” Dean lay his hand against Castiel’s chest, feeling his heartbeat. “Can you promise me something?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“That you’ll live.”

⁂

The citizens crowded the Capital. They waved from their windows and climbed onto rooftops. They littered the streets, cheering and shouting, fighting to catch a glimpse of the warriors marching toward the grand finale. The noise swelled, carrying all the way to the castle gates

In the castle grounds, the soldiers organized themselves into neat lines and rows. They waited for the Captain to count them and give them orders. Everyone acted with discipline and dignity but it was impossible to ignore the nervous tension in the air. The louder the Capital crowd became, the thicker the atmosphere of apprehension grew. 

The mercenaries clustered in their own group, a loud rowdy circle with Rufus at the centre. He shouted his orders to the mercenaries. The mercenaries shouted back. It was a contrast to the orderly soldiers but the method seemed to work. With one final battle cry, the mercenary group broke apart, ready and waiting to march.

Ash directed the healers. With Kevin among them, they went through their tasks, grave and serious. They took inventory. They unpacked and repacked their supplies, making sure the medicine would survive travel. They distributed the packs according to weight. Then, once they were done, they deliberated with each other, unpacked the supplies, and started all over again.

At the back of the procedings, Sam held Jessica in his arms, his grip tight, like he wanted to make sure she could feel him long after he left. Dean and Castiel gave them some privacy. 

“Are you ready?” Dean asked.

“No,” Castiel said. “Are you?”

“No.”

The castle grounds busted with activity. As soon as a soldier was cleared, they ran to their loved ones for a final goodbye. Dean saw mothers and fathers kiss their children, saw couples fall into each other’s arms, and old friends clasp hands. 

Charlie’s red hair stood out from the crowd. When Dean looked closer, he saw her embrace a woman with blonde hair. When the blonde pulled back, holding Charlie’s hands, Dean realized with a jolt that she was Jo. A few seconds later, when Pamela joined them and placed a kiss on Charlie's and Jo’s lips in turn, and took one of each of their hands, Dean’s jolt became a total shock.

Oh, Dean was _so_ going to talk to them about that later. 

A shrill whistle cut off the activity. The Captain jumped on top of a crate and cupped his hands around his mouth. He ordered everyone to their stations. A flurry of movement followed as they fulfilled the command.

Sam let go of Jessica with a final kiss-- or a few final kisses-- then joined Dean and Castiel. All they could manage was a couple of nods to each other.

“I should, ah--” Sam jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the healers. “Good luck.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Stay safe.”

“I will. See you at camp?”

Dean nodded. Sam joined the line of healers. He sought out Kevin and made a point of standing next to him.

“Well,” Dean said to Castiel, “we better get to it.”

The Captain waved Dean and Castiel to the front. Dean tried to move but his legs were frozen in place. Castiel took Dean’s hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, and pulled Dean behind him. As they passed, the people parted. Every one of them regarded the two with awe. Castiel dropped Dean’s hand when they reached the destination. Dean stood on one side of the Captain and Castiel stood on the other. Every eye in the castle grounds rested upon them.

Dean felt the weight of each one. Some of those eyes would never see the castle again. 

“Alright!” The Captain shouted. “Let’s keep this short and sweet. We will win this battle. We will end the Long War. We will come home to our families. Now”-- Captain Singer nodded to the guard to open the gate-- “we march!” 

The warriors cheered and, with the Angel and the Knight leading the charge, the army marched out of the castle and into the Capital. At every corner, they were met with enthusiastic support from the citizens. Bolstered by the cheers, the army‘s pace did not slow, even as they marched into the dark. When they set up camp, spirits were high. 

That was the first night. Two weeks in, with the army tired and footsore, it was difficult to keep that level of energy. 

Other than the marching army, there was no other life on the road. No Creatures of the Night emerged from the darkness to attack them. No rabbits scurried across the grass. No bugs buzzed in the night. All living beings held their breath, waiting for the final battle. 

Dean could not help but think that the humans were the only ones stupid enough to head toward it. 

Over a month later, the battlefield was in sight. The healers searched for a place to make camp in the looming forest. The Awakened Creatures met the army at the forest exit, Lenore and Garth leading from the front. A week later, final preparations were completed. 

A few days before midsummer, the army took a deep collective breath and marched onto the beach. 

They marched toward the grand finale. 

Dean watched them leave. Since he and Castiel were to enter Heaven itself, they had to wait until the bulk of the Metatron’s forces were engaged with the Capital’s army. Their task would be easier if Heaven was as empty as possible. 

“I hate this,” Dean said, watching the last line of soldiers fade into the horizon. 

“I know,” Sam said, “but you got a pretty hard job yourself.”

Dean sighed and retreated into the forest. The healers’ camp was well-hidden amongst the trees. It was fully stocked and set up, but Ash still directed the healers to double and triple check that everything was in place. When Dean and Sam returned, Ash shouted Sam’s name and insistently motioned for him to come over.

“Sorry.” Sam slapped Dean on the back. “Duty calls.” 

Even with all the activity, even with the guards patrolling the camp, even with Garth’s maybe-girlfriend-- Bess, if Dean remembered correctly-- shouting orders to provide their Awakened allies proper care, the forest felt still and unnatural. The broad leaves blotted out the sky. The controlled fires set up in preparation for sunset provided little light. The trees absorbed all sounds of life. Though he was just a few steps away from the camp, Dean could not hear the people. 

Dean shivered. He hunched forward and wrapped his arms across his body. It was not cold but he felt a chill. A hand at his back made Dean reach for his sword. He relaxed when he looked over his shoulder. 

“My apologies,” Castiel said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay.” Dean willed himself to relax. It kind of worked. “I think I’m just a little jumpy.”

“This forest is creepy.”

Dean chuckled at Castiel’s grave tone, then turned around and took Castiel’s hand. When Dean squeezed it and Castiel returned the gesture, Dean knew he was not alone in his anxiety. 

“Waiting sucks,” Dean said. “I think I’d feel better if I knew our ride was here.”

“Balthazar will arrive.”

“Wish I shared your confidence.” 

“I know you don’t trust him,” Castiel said, holding Dean’s one hand in both of his own, “but you trust me. He’ll arrive.”

“Okay. I just--” 

“The army will fight valiantly and with honour. You trained them, after all.”

Dean swallowed. His skin prickled, his hair stood on end, and his heart beat faster with each passing moment. The feeling would not go away until he was out there fighting for his life and family like everyone else. 

Dean attempted a smile, understanding that Castiel tried to provide comfort. He added his last hand to the pile. 

“Yeah,” Dean said, his tone weary. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“There is something I would like you to try,” Castiel said. “If you were willing.”

“What?”

“Pray.”

Dean blinked, waiting for Castiel to say something else. “Cas, I have no idea what that means.”

“Oh. I will explain it.” Castiel tilted his head, his eyebrows lowering as he thought. “Actually, I never had to explain this before. Um… It’s much like thinking about something you want to say to a person far away.”

“Far away?”

“Yes. If we find ourselves separated, just pray to me. Start with my name-- out loud or in your head-- and then what you want to tell me. Preferably where you are.”

“Sounds handy.” Dean's eyes went wide. “Wait. Wait. Are you saying we could’ve done that all this time? That would have been useful years ago!” 

“I'm afraid it only goes one way. I cannot reply. Besides, I’m not so sure it would have worked. My powers are not as they were. However…” Castiel released Dean’s hands and stepped closer. He held Dean’s face between his palms. “It’s easier to hear a prayer when there is a close relationship. I think, with the profound bond we have formed, it will now.”

“Profound, huh?” Dean ran his hands up Castiel’s arms. “Well, I could try.”

Dean closed his eyes. He was not sure if it was needed, but it felt appropriate. He deliberated on what to say. The answer came to him easily. It was something he wanted to say for a while but found difficult to speak aloud.

 _Cas_ , Dean prayed, _I love you._

He did not have to open his eyes to know it worked. When Castiel’s lips meet his, Dean found, for a few precious seconds, a way to soothe his worried soul. 

⁂

All throughout the day and well into the night, the army marched across the pristine white sands. They stopped for a few short hours to rest then carried on, the glaring morning sun bearing down upon them. Sweat pooled beneath their armour, their throats dried in the salt air, and their eyes ached from the water’s glare, but every single army member followed the Captain without complaint. 

On midsummer morning, the sunrise lit the sky in red. The waters which washed ashore reflected the colour, reminiscent of blood. 

When the army reached the shore, the sun was high in the sky and the waters were clear. When the army reached the shore, they looked around, watching, waiting, unsure of what they saw.

Nothing. 

When the army reached the shore, there was nothing. Nothing to fight. Nothing to act upon. Nothing to view but the waters and sand. 

The Captain raised his hand, signalling the army to stand ready. Alone, Captain Singer approached the shoreline, his careful, deliberate steps leaving deep footprints in the wet sand. He reached the water and allowed the waves to crash over his boots.

He looked up.

The sky rippled, undulating like the ocean waves. At first, it was slow and hardly perceptible. Soon, it quickened, pulsating faster and faster until the sky resembled stormy seas.

The sky ripped. Strands of sky and cloud fluttered in the air, revealing a sphere of bright, shining, pure white light. 

At the Captain’s gasp, the rest of the army looked up and caught a glimpse of the light of Creation.

They saw Heaven.

Next, they saw black dots, tiny pinpricks falling over the breach, marring the perfect sphere. At first, the Captain thought they were birds flying across the surface. However, the pinpricks pitched downward, becoming bigger before his eyes. Once the pinpricks came closer, the Captain realized what they were. 

The Metatron’s army fell from Heaven. The Creatures of the Night landed in the ocean. The force of hundreds of bodies launched a great wave ashore. The Captain scuffled backward, the wet sand sticking to his boots slowing his retreat. He ordered the army back to safety, shouting to be heard.

The wave drenched the Captain and hit the first few rows of soldiers, despite their quick action. By the time the army regained their balance, they realized it was only the first wave.

The Celestials were falling.

And Heaven was coming down.


	47. Once More Unto the Breach

Power surged across the Realm. Sitting at the healer’s camp, Castiel gasped when he felt the light of Creation touch his inner being for the first time in years. He stood and peered into the sky. The tree leaves trembled. The wind gusted. Castiel could not see the breach, but he knew Heaven was open.

Dean set aside the bowl which held his morning rations and titled his head back to see Castiel. “What is it?”

“It’s time,” Castiel said. 

Dean scrambled to his feet. He looked to the tent behind him, where Sam was completing a quadruple check of his supplies. Dean missed Balthazar’s arrival. When he turned back around, he let out an undignified yelp. 

Balthazar raised his eyebrow but let the chance to make a comment pass. If Castiel had any doubt about the seriousness of the situation, he certainly did not now. 

“You sure took your sweet time,” Dean said. 

“Relax.” Balthazar reached into his hip pouch, pulling out a small box. “I was, erm, _acquiring_ some necessary items.” He opened the box to show a flash of glittering gems before snapping it shut. “It’s our ticket through the Gate.”

Castiel squinted. “Isn’t that from the castle treasury?” 

“Sure is.” Balthazar put the box back into the pouch. “Did you know they only keep one guard there? Outside the door, too.” He laughed at the twin glares. “Oh, don’t fuss. I just took what I needed. It’s for the cause.”

With three prominent people holding their conversation in the middle of camp, the healers took note. They filtered out of their tents and peeked up from their meals. All eyes rested on the group but none said a word. The healers exchanged glances and stepped in closer to hear, then scurried back when Sam walked out of the tent. Sam did not wait for an invitation. He walked right up to Dean.

“This is it then.” It was a statement from Sam, not a question. 

“Yep,” Balthazar said. “Few hour’s time, you’ll have your hands full with injured.” 

Sam slapped Dean on the shoulder. “Then you better get moving.”

“Do me a favour,” Dean said, “and stay in one piece, okay?”

“Same to you.” 

Sam reached for Dean, pulling him in for a tight, bone-crushing hug. When they let go, they both blinked rapidly and hid their faces. Balthazar heaved a sigh. Castiel focused on the ground. He did not notice Sam approach him. 

“Don’t think you’re exempt.” Sam held his arms open for an embrace. Caught by surprise, Castiel's hands remained rigid at his side. Sam huffed out an amused sound and waited for Castiel to make a decision. When Castiel accepted the hug, Sam squeezed him just as tightly he did for his brother. Before Sam let go, he whispered, “You better come back. Both of you. Stay safe.” 

“You as well,” Castiel managed to say.

Castiel could breathe again but he missed the warmth. Sam gave Castiel and Dean one last significant look then turned to the eavesdropping healers. Sam clapped his hands and ordered them to work. They were eager to move. 

“Are you done?” Balthazar tapped his fingers on the hilt of his sword. “We have a war to get to, yes?”

Dean watched Sam move through the camp and did not react. Castiel touched Dean on the forearm and gently returned him to the task at hand. Nodding to Balthazar, Castiel steeled himself for the trials ahead. Beside him, Dean did the same thing. Balthazar, taking a deep breath himself, stepped forward and laid a hand on Castiel’s and Dean’s shoulders. 

White. Bright white. 

Castiel had forgotten how Heaven radiated the light of Creation. The Gate of Heaven shimmered under it. Castiel’s head ached to behold it. 

“Clouds?” Dean’s head bobbed every which way. “Are we standing on clouds?”

“We are in the sky,” Balthazar said, his steps assured as he approached the Gate.

Dean blanched. “Oh, we are _really_ high up.”

“Are you alright?” Castiel asked.

“I-- I don’t like heights. I didn’t think we’d actually be in the sky!” Dean’s body lurched forward like he wanted to take a step. He did not move. “I’m not gonna fall. I’m not gonna fall.” He raised a leg and tentatively placed it on the cloud beneath him. He titled his head back in relief when it remained solid. 

Castiel moved to Dean’s side and placed a hand to the small of his back. “I will not let you fall.”

Their progress was slow but Dean's steps became more assured the closer they got to the Gate. Balthazar watched their progress. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot but said nothing in the face of Castiel’s warning glare. 

A single Celestial, sitting at a desk with her chin in hand, observed the new arrivals with boredom. She wore white robes, marking her as a clerk rather than a warrior. Her long red hair, carefully curled, was pulled back from her face with an ornate hair piece decorated with colourful, glittering jewels. She did not bother to stand when the group reached the Gate.

“What,” she stated flatly.

“Anael!” Balthazar greeted, voice warm. “So you’re the only one they left here, huh?”

“All the higher-ups went into lockdown. Dear Saint Peter made the call. But, you know, _someone’s_ gotta press the button.” Anael rolled her eyes. “Who’s essential now?”

“Speaking of,” Balthazar said, “are you gonna press that button now?”

“Why?” She pointed to Castiel and Balthazar. “You’re traitors.” She pointed to Dean. “And he’s human. Not even a dead one.”

Balthazar smiled. “Because it would piss off your superiors?” 

“Whatever.” Anael twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “I still have to live with them.”

“C’mon, lady,” Dean said. “We’re gonna win.”

“With a couple of heretics, some humans, and a few Creatures?” Anael barked out a laugh. “Yeah right.” 

“You should give the humans a chance,” Castiel said. “They can be rather surprising.”

“What? So I can fall and get all old and grey and wrinkly like you?” Anael scoffed. “No thank you.”

Running his fingers down his cheek, Castiel narrowed his eyes. Dean mouthed Anael’s words and glanced at Castiel. Dean shook his head, not seeing any of it.

Balthazar laughed. “Oh, Anael, never change.” He reached into his pocket and took out the box. “I have something that might change your mind.” 

For the first time since their arrival, Anael sat up. She fixed her gaze on the box and raised her eyebrows, impatient to see what was inside. Balthazar smirked and, after an anticipatory pause, opened the box. 

A pair of teardrop shaped earrings, made of emerald, shone under the light of Creation. Anael licked her lips and shifted in her chair. The green gemstones glittered in her eyes.

“I recall you saying you wanted something like this,” Balthazar said. “I’d say this is worth pressing a button and turning your back for a few moments, don’t you think?”

Anael bit her bottom lip. She stared at the earrings, silent. Baltazar’s confident smirk did not waver. Anael flicked her eyes up to Balthazar’s face, nodded once, and reached under her desk. 

The Gate swung inward without a sound. The group walked through. Anael pointedly stared at a fixed point on her desk. That was where Baltazar left the box when he passed her. 

“You recall her saying?” Castiel asked.

“It-- It was just a couple of dates. I, uh, I wasn’t ready.” Balthazar quickened his pace with his hands clasped behind his back, making sure he was at the front. 

Beyond the Gate, a door awaited them. Its rectangular shape was half-hidden in the bright bloom. Balthazar did not hesitate, reaching into the light and grasping the handle with ease. With a flourish, Balthazar held the door open for Castiel and Dean.

They stepped into an endless hall of white, marked every few feet with the outline of doors with no handles. The light flickered over the walls from an unseen source, casting certain places in a brighter, whiter light. As Castiel walked down the hallway, he was overwhelmed by a sense of familiarity. He stopped and looked behind him. The hallway stretched on forever. 

Dean stopped after a few paces, realizing Castiel was no longer beside him. He turned around. “Cas? Something wrong?”

“No, I--” Castiel looked forward. The hallway stretched on forever. “I’ve never noticed it before but this is much like a brighter version of Hell, don’t you think?”

Dean followed Castiel’s line of sight. “Shit. You’re right. That’s weird.”

Hell was created by Lucifer. Lucifer based the design upon Heaven, taking the All-Father’s creation and turning it into a negative image. Heaven and Hell were much like a silver coin with one tarnished side. Which one was tarnished-- Heaven or Hell-- one could not say.

“Hey!” Balthazar hurried back to Dean and Castiel. “Weren’t you on my case about being slow earlier? Get a move on! We’re in enemy territory here!” 

Right on cue, the ring of steel echoed over the walls. In unison, Castiel, Balthazar, and Dean drew their swords. They held them aloft and stood in a circle with their backs to each other. Moving in a slow circuit, the group scanned the area for the source of the noise. 

The hallway stretched on forever. 

“Anything? Dean asked. 

Balthazar and Castiel answered in the negative. 

“We best keep moving forward,” Castiel said. “Remain vigilant.” 

Once the others acknowledged the order, they carried on. Balthazar led the way. Castiel kept an eye on their rear and Dean continued to search for the threat. They saw nothing but, as they progressed, the sound of metal became a constant reminder of an impending, unseeable, and unknowable threat.

Castiel could not tell if they covered any distance at all. Perhaps they were walking in place, with the endless hallway stretching behind and before them into infinity.

The sound, however, became louder.

"Has this hall always been this long?" asked Castiel.

Balthazar's eyes flitted from one door to another, unable to discern a difference. "I, ah, don't think so."

"Guess Metatron knows we're here," Dean said.

Metal shrieked in the distance.

"A fair assessment," Castiel said.

Balthazar muttered curses under his breath. "Guess it was too much to ask to reach the throne unscathed."

Nothing appeared but Balthazar's words could scarcely be heard over the sound. Castiel moved closer to Dean and pressed their shoulders together. Dean tightened his grip on his sword. The group came to a full stop.

The flickering lights flashed like lightning, cutting haphazard lines over the walls and floors. The metallic sound was on top of them now, causing them to clutch their ears in pain. As the metal screamed, the lines of bright white light advanced toward them, partitioning each person into separate sections. 

Castiel squinted against the glare. With shaking knees he forced himself to stand up straight and endure the terrible noise. He saw Balthazar do the same thing. Dean tried, but his human sensibilities could barely withstand Heaven's assault. The fact that he was standing at all was a testament to his will.

The lines glowed and Castiel realized they were cracks in which the light of Creation bled through. Castiel shouted to Dean-- though it was lost in the noise--to not stare into the glare. No being, other than the All-Father Himself, could gaze directly into the radiance and keep their eyes, their heart, their mind.

The light made a sound: the song of Heaven. It was a beautiful sound. It was a terrible sound. A loud, piercing wail filled the senses. It was too much to comprehend, too much for the body to hold, and Castiel, Balthazar, and Dean fell to their knees.

The screeching metal stopped, not that anyone noticed over the rest of the noise. Castiel peered across the line, trying to see through the growing bloom of white. He could not see Balthazar. He could not see Dean. He took a few shuffling steps forward, fighting against the weight of Heaven's power upon him. Finally, he reached the line separating him from the others. 

Sparks sputtered at the point of contact, swirling up Castiel’s leg and enveloping his body. He did not have time to react. He did not have time to shout when he was yanked back. He did not have time to recover from the lurch in his stomach. 

Castiel landed in an empty white room. Empty, except for the two women sitting on the floor who startled at Castiel’s arrival. One woman, dressed in practical clothing, was short and slight with close-cropped dark hair. Behind her tired stare was an iron will. She met Castiel’s eyes with no hesitation or fear. The other woman wore a tattered white dress, revealing the many old and new scars marking her pale skin. Her unkempt long blonde hair hid her face in shadows. When she raised her gaze, Castiel saw a flash of fire, smelled the stench of smoke, and heard the gasp of a woman’s final breath.

The woman had steel in her eyes. 

⁂

Dean tried to yell. He tried to move. He tried to do anything other than cowering from the light of Creation. 

He could not. All Dean could do was try to hold himself together.

A hand grabbed Dean’s shoulder. The light dimmed. The sound faded. The weight lifted. 

Dean stood. He could not see Castiel or Balthazar through the light but it no longer hurt to look at it. He saw the long dark fingers curling around his shoulder. He turned around.

A man, with skin softened and creased by time, gave Dean a kind smile. The man wore no armour and carried no sword. Instead, he wore light, simple clothing covered in patches of dirt. He gave the impression of a grandfather out for an afternoon stroll, but Dean had no doubt the sole reason he could stand-- that he was not coming apart at the seams-- was because the old man’s crooked fingers remained on his shoulder. 

The old man raised his eyebrows. A gentle breeze fluttered Dean’s hair and, with that, they were gone.

Once Dean and Castiel were removed, the light receded, the cracks sealed shut like they were never there, and the noise ended. Balthazar straightened, glanced up and down the endless hallway, and saw a Celestial in full battle garb approach him. 

What happened there, few could say. 

The grass beneath Dean’s was far greener than he had ever seen. The flowers-- in saturated colours-- grew together in harmony despite their unique needs. The trees, plants, and bushes hailed both from places Dean knew and would never see. The sunlight came from everywhere and nowhere, casting the whole place in a welcoming golden glow. Dean inhaled deeply, catching the sweet scent of the flowers and the freshness of the perpetual spring breeze. 

"What is this place?" Dean asked, gazing into the cloudless blue sky.

"This is the Garden," the old man said. "Stay as long as you like. It's safe here."

The man smiled and backed away from Dean. He knelt on the ground some distance away and picked up his waiting spade. He dug into the soil, readying a place for the seeds in a round pan resting by his foot. 

Dean joined the man, sitting in the soft grass. Watching the man work, Dean noticed the stoop in the man's shoulders seemed permanent. The old man held his left hand against his chest. On the occasions he used that hand, it shook and he could not properly bend his fingers. 

The seeds rattled in the pan when the man tried to bring them to the freshly tilled soil. Dean took the pan before he lost them all.

"Oh, thank you," the man said. "Usually I have help but he hasn't come by in a few days."

"Maybe something's holding him up," Dean said.

"Perhaps. Last time I saw Castiel he smelled of smoke and death. He did say it may be a while before we'd meet again."

"You know Cas?" Dean's palms sunk into the grass as he leaned forward to get a closer look at the man. Of course. Dean should have figured it out sooner. "You're Joshua."

"Yes." Joshua looked up from his work. "Do I know you? My memory for names and faces have been failing me as of late."

"No, no, you don't know me. I'm Dean. We're both friends of Cas. Er, Castiel."

"I see." Joshua stroked his chin, leaving a trail of dirt in the grey stubble on his face, and studied Dean. Dean fought the urge to shrink away. "That explains it."

"Explains what?'

"You've been touched," Joshua said, pressing a fingertip against Dean's side, exactly where Gordon Walker stabbed him all those years ago, "right here. When I heard the song of Heaven and investigated it, I noticed you right away. I didn't think I knew you but I couldn't be sure."

Dean held onto his side, the metal on the armour he wore warmed by the sun. "Cas fixed me up a while ago."

Joshua nodded. "He must care for you a great deal for it to still shine so brightly after all that time."

The breeze that whistled by did nothing to cool Dean's cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, uh, yeah. I like to think so."

"There is no need to doubt." Joshua pointed to the pan in Dean's hand. "Would you please pass me some of those?"

Dean looked at the seeds, seeing an assortment of colours and sizes. "Which ones?"

"You'll know."

Dean grabbed a bulb at random and handed it to Joshua. Without a word, Joshua planted it. The moment he covered it with the soil, long sword-like stems sprouted from the group. A few seconds later, the stems were covered in flowers, a variety of red, pink, and purple.

"Ah, gladiolus." Joshua peered over a red flower to Dean. "Yes, I can see that."

"What?"

"Would you help me with the next one? I enjoy having company."

Joshua led Dean to another patch of grass a few feet away. They repeated the process. The seeds Dean chose bloomed into a colourful assortment of bright round flowers.

"Chrysanthemum. One must ask: which way should these be read?" Joshua stood and headed to another empty patch. "Let us find out."

Dean's confused stare was only met with another one of Joshua's kind smiles. Joshua dug into the ground and held out his hand for another seed.

The third time, all the flowers were white. Joshua stared at the star shaped petals and closed his eyes.

"Lily," he said, his voice solemn and quiet. "One must pray that I am wrong."

Dean did not understand what was happening, not entirely, but he did see the undisguised grief in Jousha's wet eyes. "Are you ever wrong?" 

"No," Joshua whispered.

"I don't-- I don't understand this."

"I'm sorry, Dean." Joshua stared out over the white sea of lilies into a different patch of flowers. "I'm sorry, Castiel."

"What? Why?" 

Joshua did not answer. He walked to the other patch of flowers, his walk slow and shuffling. Dean followed him, full of impatience at the crawling pace but knowing that there was no point in hurrying. The curve in Jousha's shoulders was more pronounced than when Dean first arrived in the Garden. That was as fast as the old man could go.

They reached a field of blue and purple irises. Dean carefully followed Joshua's path to not crush them. Dean could not say why, but he felt the flowers were precious.

"This is Castiel's part of the Garden. He helped me plant these just like you did." Joshua stopped in the middle of the path and pointed to a patch of wilted irises. "They started to die not long after I last saw him. However"-- he cast his arms wide-- "they have returned. I have been having trouble keeping up with them all! Especially along with the new ones."

"New ones?" As soon as Dean asked the question, he found the answer.

Huge rose bushes, ones that could never exist upon the Realm, towered over the rest of the flower field. Every branch-- every patch of green-- held red flowers. There were so many of them, Dean fretted that the branches would break under the weight. The bushes stood proud, even sprouting a few more red flowers as Dean watched. Dean need not have doubted its strength. 

A few dying yellow carnations still clung to the base of the bushes. Joshua shook his head at them. "I always thought that Castiel picked the wrong partner. Seems I was correct."

Dean did not hear the muttered words. He stared up at the roses, admiring the passionate red, and tried to find a name for the feeling rising in his chest.

"What--" Dean licked his lips. "What does it mean?"

Joshua stood shoulder to shoulder with Dean. He could be forgiven for his incredulous stare when he asked, "You don't know?"

"My brother's the one who knows about plants," Dean said, voice faint.

But Dean knew. It was overwhelming, looking up at those red roses, but Dean knew.

"Then perhaps you need some time to think about it," Joshua said before flying away.

Dean walked toward the roses, needing to see them up close. The huge, impossible, physics-defying rose bush cast a shadow over Dean. The shade gave Dean’s eyes relief from the sunlight and allowed the hot metal on his armour to cool. Sitting at the bottom of the rose bushes, resting his tired feet, Dean felt warm and safe. 

He wished he knew if Castiel was okay. He even spared half a thought for Balthazar. 

“Hey, Cas.” He felt silly but Dean addressed the rose by his shoulder. “You got your ears on? I, ah, hope I’m doing this praying thing right. Joshua found me and took me to the Garden. He showed me your part. It’s--” Dean touched the silky rose petals with a fingertip. “It’s incredible. I get why you hung out here. Joshua seems like a good guy-- Celestial, whatever. And, I, uh…” Dean tilted his head back, looking at the blue expanse of the sky. He chewed his bottom lip. “I planted some stuff, too. Gotta say, that was _not_ what I was expecting to do today. Pretty weird. But, uh, don’t worry. I’m fine. So, you better be taking care of yourself right now, okay?” With a deep breath, Dean stood from his seat. He glanced back at the red flower he touched before turning away. “I’ll find you.”

When Dean left the rose bushes and headed back through the field of irises, determined to rejoin Castiel and complete his mission, the flowers changed. Dean did not see it. The single rose Dean touched was no longer red, but white.

No one was around to see the edges turn black.


	48. Death of the Author

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! **There is a spoiler filled content warning in the endnotes!**

The fighting went on for days, or weeks, or months. Sam could not be sure. His days passed in a flurry of activity. He saw countless patients. He stitched up their wounds, set their broken bones, and tried to keep death at bay. He was not always successful. 

Kevin, of all people, was the one who finally made Sam rest. Kevin dragged a collapsing Sam into one of the tents with a spare bed-- an impressive feat for a young man half Sam’s size-- and explicitly ordered Sam to not leave there for at least four hours. 

Too tired to argue-- and perhaps a little impressed by Kevin’s boldness-- Sam lay back and slept for at least two of those hours in fits and starts. The rest of the time he spent worrying. 

He worried about taking up a bed the injured may need more. He worried about the ongoing sounds of fighting that reached the healer's camp, far from the battlefield. He worried about what was going on up in Heaven. He worried about what was going on with his brother and his Angel. He worried about what was going on with his wife back home.

At the end of the fourth hour, all voices within the camp raised in alarm. Sam sprung out of bed, still fully dressed, and hurried outside. In the centre of the camp, healers pulled the injured into the nearest source of cover. Those capable of battle-- healers or warriors-- picked up the closest weapon and scrambled to make a defensive line. Sam rushed to join it. The dagger he took from Ruby, which he always kept on his belt, shone in his hands.

The shadows moved behind the trees. The leaves rustled. The dirt showed the impression of paw prints. 

And the hellhounds began to howl. 

The ragtag group of warriors dug in their heels, their heads and eyes rolling around, trying to obtain a glimpse of their foe. One man, with his left arm still in a sling, was the first to step forward. That man was the first to feel the hellhound's teeth on his neck.

Soon, the healer’s camp rang with the shouts of fighters and the high-pitched whines of attacking hellhounds. Unable to see their foes, the combatants swung their swords wildly, hoping to land a hit. Dark blood rained upon the ground whenever a warrior was successful. Red blood dripped onto the dirt when they were not. 

A voice shouted for help. Sam whipped around, ready to assist, when hot, wet breath ran down his neck. There was no time for Sam to react. Huge paws slammed against Sam’s shoulders. Sharp claws pierced through his protective gear and pinned a winded Sam face down in the dirt. Sam struggled against the hold of the invisible hound, straining to reach his dagger just out of reach of his fingers. 

The hellhound panted in Sam’s ear. Slick saliva ran down Sam’s cheek. Sam could not move his neck, could not break free of the deadly teeth descending upon him. 

All at once, the weight lifted from his back. A heavy weapon thumped into the hellhound’s flank, throwing it clear of the area. Sam did not let the reprieve go to waste. He lunged for his dagger and scrambled to his feet. He whirled around, his weapon at the ready, and his jaw dropped.

“You know,” Benny said, hoisting his axe upon his shoulder and flashing one of his toothsome smiles, “after all this time, I’m still out here saving Winchester ass.”

“ _Benny_? Dean told me you--”

“What? I couldn’t miss the finale now, could I?”

Benny pointed to the battlefield. New fighters joined the fray, wearing tattered armour and wielding makeshift weapons. The hellhounds howled and snarled but the combined might of the warriors pushed them back. After a final push, the last hellhound retreated, its limping footprints marking the dirt. 

A woman with long plaited brown hair shouted orders to the new warriors. Benny’s smile when he watched her take control of the situation spoke volumes. 

Noticing Sam’s stare, Benny raised an amused eyebrow. “Now, Sam, correct me if I’m wrong, but we are in the middle of a war here, yes?”

Sam snapped back to attention. He assessed the camp, taking stock of the damages and casualties. He went to work. 

A man with a deep bite mark on his thigh cried out in pain. The woman in charge knelt beside him. She muttered soothing noises to him, eyes darkening when she checked his injury.

Sam dropped to the ground and ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt. He pressed it to the wound, then grabbed the woman's hands and placed it on the cloth. 

“Keep pressure on that.” Sam dug in his belt pouches, searching for the right container. 

“Okay,” she said, her voice breathy, “uh, you know I’m not, uh, you know I’m--”

Sam checked the man’s pupils, making sure he remained conscious, then looked up at the woman. For the first time, he noticed the fangs. 

“Vampire. Sure.” Sam found the poultice he needed. “Well, I hope you don’t make a habit of eating allies.” 

“Only if they piss me off.” She sniffed, gasped, then tilted her head back toward the sky. “I forgot humans were so--”

“I’m Sam, by the way.” 

“Andrea.”

Sam returned to the wound and motioned for her to peel back the cloth. The injured man groaned. Andrea touched the man's hand, rubbing soothing circles on his palm with her thumb. Giving the man a moment to collect his strength, Sam surveyed the rest of the camp. He caught a glimpse of Benny speaking to Ash, acting as the representative for the new arrivals.

“Huh," Sam said. "You must be the Andrea of Andrea’s Tavern.”

“I guess so.”

“Nice to finally meet you.” 

Sam slathered the poultice onto the wound. The injured man hissed. Andrea breathed deeply through her nose, hoping to catch the summer breeze and not the scent of blood. She did not let go of the man’s hand.

“Okay, that should do it.” Sam checked behind him. When he saw Kevin rushing out of a tent with clean bandages, Sam waved him over. “Next one.”

“What?” 

“Next one. I’m sure I’ll need your help again, especially if we gotta help a Creature.”

“You’ll help us, too?”

“Course. You _did_ just save our asses.”

Sam stood, searched for the nearest person who needed help, and headed toward them. Andrea followed. With the extra set of hands, Sam’s work went smoothly. He could only hope that the rest of the battle would go the same way.

⁂

The perfect square shaped room held no furniture, no windows, and no doors. There was nothing to see but the bright white floor, the bright white walls, and the bright white ceiling. 

Therefore, Castiel stared at the blonde woman. “Why do you look like that?”

“So you do remember me.” 

“You’re not _her,_ ” Castiel said, “you just look like her.”

The woman smiled with all her teeth. They shone like the Leviathan's maw. “What? You don’t believe I’m Mary Winchester?”

“She’s dead.”

“You made sure of that, didn’t you?” When she made a move to stand, she groaned and slumped down the wall. 

The woman with the dark hair glared at Castiel, then pressed her hand against the blonde woman’s stomach. It came away red and wet. “You promised you would say something.”

“I’m fine, Linda. There’s not much you can do anyway.”

Linda rolled her eyes. “You underestimate me.”

“You’re hurt.” Castiel sat on the floor. He reached out to the blonde woman but pulled back in response to both women’s reproachful glares. “I can help.” 

“Your ‘help’ is why I’m like this, Castiel,” the blonde woman said. “Well, that and Metatron's need for an army.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked. 

“I've been watching you for a long, long time, Castiel. Right here, in this room.” She struggled to sit up against the wall. With Linda’s help, she was able to stare into Castiel’s eyes. There, Castiel saw the depths of an ancient being, far older than even himself. “Tell me: what was it like leading my children to slaughter? Did you feel powerful when you severed them from me? Was it easier when you called it healing?”

The words were delivered evenly and quietly but they left Castiel reeling, like he just been sucked into the middle of a vortex. 

“You’re the Mother of All,” Castiel whispered.

“Yes.” The Mother ran her hand over her arm from shoulder to wrist. “You asked me why I chose this form. Well, that is how this whole story started: a woman died, spurring a bunch of men into action because of it. But, I ask you: Who was she? Who was Mary Winchester?”

“I--” Castiel swallowed. “I don’t know.”

The Mother's smile was sharp. “No, you wouldn’t. Her husband never did either. I’ll tell you, though. She was a warrior in her own right. She took down many of my children in her youth, long before she met her lover. She came from a long line of mercenaries but wanted a peaceful life. So, she settled down in a quiet village and became a mother. A mother who would do anything for her children.” One hand clutched to her wound and the other braced against the wall, the Mother pushed herself to her feet. She looked down upon Castiel. “I felt a certain kind of kinship with her.”

Linda stood beside the Mother. “As do I. I would stop at nothing to help my son.”

“Your son is Kevin Tran?” Castiel asked.

The shadows under Linda’s eyes lessened when she heard the name. “You know him?”

“He’s the reason we made it this far. He sent us here to find you.” Castiel shifted his attention to the Mother. “And Lenore wanted me to find you.”

“How fortunate for you to find both of us here,” the Mother said.

“Yes.” Castiel stood. He turned in a circle, searching the smooth white walls for a way out of the room. “Very fortunate.” 

“I can see the battle, Castiel. It may comfort you to know your humans are holding their own.” The Mother gasped. Blood flowed out from between the finger of the hand holding her wound. “My children, not so much.”

Castiel rushed to the Mother’s side, catching her before she fell to the floor. “What’s happening to you?”

“I can feel the pain of my children.” She shrugged off Castiel’s hands and steadied her stance. “I should tell you that everything I see Metatron sees, including this. He linked us. As long as he has this link, he can control my children.”

“Link?” Castiel’s realization hit him like a lightning bolt. “That’s how Metatron has been controlling the Creatures. Though you.” 

“Yes.”

“All this time?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I--” Castiel swallowed. “I didn’t know.”

The Mother studied Castiel. She saw the lines at the corners of his mouth. She saw the weariness in the stoop of his shoulders. She saw the real sorrow in his eyes, the sympathy for her situation. 

“I believe you,” the Mother said, her words surprising to both her and Castiel. “You could help me.”

“How?”

The Mother turned to Linda. “You said you found a way out of here?”

“Only a theory,” Linda said. “I can’t be sure it will work.”

“Well”-- the Mother removed her hand from her stomach, showing that her dress was much more red than white-- “there’s no time like the present.”

Linda’s eyes went wide for a fraction of a second before she nodded in determination. She reached into her pocket and produced a hairpin. She gave Castiel a hard gaze, sparing a softer one for the Mother, and headed to the corner of the room. 

“What do you need me to do?” Castiel asked.

Talking Castiel’s hands in her own, the Mother placed his palms on either side of her head. Her fingers left bloody streaks across Castiel’s hands and armour. 

“Awaken,” the Mother whispered.

The power flowed from Castiel’s core. At that point in Castiel’s life, it was second nature. He held the power just under the surface and waited. The Mother did not shy away from the sight. She looked directly into Castiel’s blazing blue eyes, filled with his divine power, and nodded her consent.

Castiel released his power. The light travelled through the Mother’s body, shining from her wounds, old and new. As the light moved, it healed her, leaving behind smooth unblemished skin. Castiel held on to the Mother, searching for that now familiar wound-- the link-- that the Metatron placed upon the Creature’s inner being, their soul.

When Castiel found it, he focused on that one, single spot and commanded, “Awaken.”

The light filled the room, blotting out Castiel’s vision and making Linda wince. Once the room returned to its original whiteness, the woman standing before Castiel was not a recreation of Mary Winchester, but someone else.

Long, glossy black hair hung to the Mother’s waist. Her eyes, large and dark, shone with life. Her full red lips curved into a smile.

“Thank you, Castiel.” The Mother smoothed down her white dress, free of any holes or blood. “I haven’t been able to return to this form since the first humans walked the Realm.” 

“You feel…” Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Familiar.”

“Some once called me Eve.” She lay a hand on Castiel’s test, keeping him from pitching forward. “You gave me too much of your strength.”

“I’ll be fine.” 

A click echoed through the room. Linda sang a triumphant tune. 

“I did it! I--” Linda turned around, her head framed by the glowing light that marked the opened door. She cut off when she saw the Mother’s new form. “Whoa. You look different.” 

The mother smiled. She kept Castiel steady with a hand at his arm and joined Linda by the door. 

“Thank you, Linda.” The Mother tucked Linda’s hair behind her ear. “You have been a friend to me. I will make sure you see your son again. Please stay behind me.”

The Mother pushed to the front of the group. She nodded to Linda then Castiel and, filled with poise and confidence, she stepped through the door. It led back into the hallway. This time, however, it was not so endless. 

A door, intricately carved with golden trim in the shape of wings, took up the entire wall at one end of the hallway. The light of Creation radiated out from the door seams. Even from a significant distance, Castiel could hear the song of Heaven. Behind that door, the Throne of God awaited. 

“Okay,” Linda said. “Where do we go now?”

The Mother peered up and down the hallway, her brows low. She did not reply.

Castiel stalled at the doorway. He did not hear the question. He was busy listening to Dean.

“No, no,” Castiel muttered under his breath, “stay where you are.”

Of course, there was no way for Dean to hear Castiel. 

The sound of running footsteps-- a single set-- brought the group's attention back to the task at hand. Castiel faced the approach. He protected the others with his body. 

“Linda,” Castiel said as the footsteps grew louder. “Have you ever used a weapon?”

“Not much.” Linda shrugged. “I’m a fast learner.”

That was enough for Castiel. He flicked his wrist, dropping his tri-edged blade into his hand. He handed it to Linda. She tested the weight of the weapon in her hand, watched the light shine off the wicked edge, and grinned.

Unfortunately for Linda-- but luckily for the group-- she did not have the opportunity to use it. Once the figure approaching them became clearer, Castiel motioned to the others to stand down.

“Cas! Cassie!” Balthazar reached the group. He bent over at the waist and rested his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath between words. “I've been looking for you everywhere!”

Castiel touched the fresh cut that ran from Balthazar’s temple to his chin. “What happened to you?”

Balthazar straightened, batting Castiel’s hand away as he went. “Oh, just a little scuffle. Nothing to worry about.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

Balthazar waved a dismissive hand then, catching sight of the two women peering at him with undisguised curiosity, he changed the subject. “Who are your new friends?”

“These are the two we were meant to rescue. Though…” Castiel tilted his head. “It was more like they rescued me.”

The Mother consumed Balthazar's attention. “You seem familiar.” 

She smiled. “I’ve been getting that a lot today.”

“Balthazar,” Castiel said. “I want you to take them out of here.”

“What now?” Balthazar glanced around him. “We haven’t reached the Metatron yet! Not to mention the fact that your human seems to be missing.”

“I’ll find him. I’ll find both of them.”

“And how do you plan on doing that, huh? Or getting out? I’m the only one with wings around here.” 

“I suppose--” Castiel hummed. “I’ll make it up as I go.”

Balthazar groaned and scrubbed his palm down his face. “I’m not changing your mind, am I?”

“No.” Castiel squared his shoulders and walked toward the doorway. “I suggest you start moving.”

Linda touched Castiel’s arm as he passed. She held out the blade as an offering.

Castiel did not take it. “You should hold on to that. You may still need it yet.”

She flipped the blade over in her hand and let go of Castiel’s arm. Castiel unfashioned the blade’s sheath from his wrist and handed it to Linda. The Mother said nothing when Castiel walked by. She watched his retreating back with shining, ancient eyes. Balthazar lay a hand on each of their shoulders. They turned around and headed down the hallway, the opposite way of Castiel. 

Head held high and steps sure, Castiel approached the door. He knew, without a doubt, that the Metatron was behind it. The Metatron was far from a warrior. The Metatron would not pick up a sword and fight on the beach. The Metatron would be sitting on his stolen throne, watching the proceedings below like it was some kind of stage show.

Castiel reached the door. He should find Dean or, at least, wait for him. The carving on the door was a wing. Castiel traced it with his fingers. The door moved at his touch.

If Castiel went through that door it could all be over. Castiel could finally defeat the Metatron. Castiel could finally end the Long War. Castiel could finally rest. He pushed against the wing. Without any resistance, the door swung inward. 

Castiel stepped into the light. 

The Throne of God had dulled over the years. Or, perhaps, the gleam was nowhere near as impressive when the wrong individual sat upon it.

Inkblots stained the armrests of the Throne, black marks upon the perfection of Creation. Crumpled up papers littered the floor, each one covered in smudged ink and angry scribbles. Another ball went flying. It bounced off the floor-- the clear surface revealing the rolling clouds underneath-- and rolled, landing at Castiel’s feet. Castiel flattened it with his boot.

The Metatron dropped his quill on top of the stack of papers in his lap. A quick flash of surprise-- one Castiel never noticed-- was replaced by a wide false smile when the Metatron looked up. 

“Castiel!” The Metatron spoke with loud, forced cheer. “How nice to see you again! And alone, too!”

“Alone?” Castiel crossed his arms, placing his hand near his sword. “What were you expecting?”

“Expecting?” The Metatron tossed back his head and laughed, high and fake. “Nothing, nothing. I’m God. I’m omnipotent. I know everything.” 

“Do you?” 

Castiel took one step toward the Throne. The Metatron shrank back into his seat. Castiel rubbed his chin, levelling the Metatron with an unblinking stare.

“Okay, okay,” the Metatron said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, “sometimes the plot takes an unexpected turn. I honestly didn’t think Balthazar would be so loyal to you. He killed my bodyguard. That’s okay. I can make this work.”

The Metatron stood from the Throne. He placed his papers on the seat, making sure they were centred and secure, and stepped down to the floor. His robes swished about his feet, the same ones he wore the day he ripped out Castiel’s wings. 

Castiel did not flinch, did not break his stare, did not back away as the Metatron approached. Castiel’s calm demeanour was a contrast to the storm of emotions brewing within him. 

“I suppose I should kill you now,” Castiel said.

“But you won’t,” the Metatron said. When Castiel drew his sword and pointed it at Metatron’s chest, the Metatron backed up with his hands held up and open. “Okay, uh, maybe you would, but then how would you reach the ending?”

“I don’t care about your stories.”

“Well, you should. They’re pretty good--”

“No, they’re not.”

“ _And_ ,” the Metatron continued, his voice sharp, “you would know that the only way to end the battle is to call back the army.” 

“Or defeat them all.”

“You really think your humans are going to take down all my Celestials? All my Creatures?”

“They’re not your Creatures anymore.”

“They’re not?” The creases at the corners of the Metatron’s grin were dark and wicked. “It is rather convenient that you found those women right away, don’t you think?”

Castiel should have launched forward. He should have plunged his sword into the Metatron’s heart right then and there. He should have ended it.

Instead, Castiel asked, “What are you talking about?”

“I sent you there. You know, give you a little victory before I yank it all away.” The Metatron spread his wings. They were white and fluffy like the clouds below and glittered with all the stars in the cosmos. “You make quite the tragic hero, Castiel. And the tragic hero always has a fatal flaw.” 

Too late, Castiel lunged at the Metatron. His sword hit true, right at the Metatron’s heart, but the Metatron was already gone.

It was not done. It was not over. 

Castiel spun around, leading with his sword, searching the empty throne room for a sign, a disturbance, any indication of the Metatron’s plans. 

“You know,” the Metatron’s voice said, echoing all around Castiel, “for a while I thought it was your pride. It’s the classic flaw for a hero’s fall. But you’ve changed. Character development, you know. Now, I think you have a new one.” 

The flap of Metatron’s wings pushed a current of wind through the throne room. The pages Metatron left on the throne flew away one by one, swirling all around the room. Castiel boots slid across the floor at the force of it. He shielded his face with his arms and planted his feet, leaning into the wind to stay upright. When the wind stilled, the pages dropped onto the floor among the crumpled up papers, forgotten and useless. Castiel saw the Metatron standing in front of the throne.

And Dean.

Dean's head lolled forward, eyes closed as if he were asleep. The only reason he stood upright was that the Metatron stood behind him and held him by the shoulders. The Metatron used Dean like a living shield. 

Castiel lowered his sword. 

“See, I think _this_ is your fatal flaw now. You’re in love...” The Metatron lay a hand over Dean’s chest, right against his heart. “...with humanity. Much more poetic, don’t you think?” 

“What are--” 

Castiel tried for a forceful tone. He tried for confidence. He tried to finish his question. He could not find the breath to do so. He could only focus on one thing: the Metatron’s fingers pressing against Dean’s vulnerable, mortal chest. 

“Ah, yes! There it is!’ The Metatron’s cheer was no longer forced. “The horror! The sadness!” The Metatron removed his hand from Dean’s chest. As Dean fell, the Metatron grinned, wide and manic. The Metatron thrust his hand forward, right into Dean’s back and through his chest, ripping through his armour like paper. The Metatron’s hand, sticky with blood, held Dean’s heart. “The heartbreak.”

Dean hit the floor, landing face up at the base of the Throne. The floor around him turned red. The Metatron grinned down at Dean, blood on his hands. 

Castiel could not be sure what happened after that. Something shattered in his chest. Something tore every good part of him away and left behind a creature of rage. The creature raised his sword, the blade flashing bright and cold, and the creature screamed. 

The Metatron cringed and tried to back away, but the Throne lay behind him. The back of his legs hit the lip of the seat. The Metatron stumbled, falling into the Throne. He could not get away. He could not hide. He could do nothing but watch the end of his life on the point of the Angel’s sword. 

With a ragged cry, Castiel plunged his sword into the Meatron’s chest. All his rage, all his strength, went into that strike. It should have been impossible-- the Throne of God was made with the power and strength of the All-Father Himself-- but the Angel’s sword pierced through the Metatron and embedded itself into the back of the Throne, never to be removed. 

Castiel would never know that, however, as he made no effort to retrieve his sword. The instant he knew the Metatron was dead, all the rage left Castiel’s body and, along with it, everything else. 

Castiel kneeled at the base of the Throne. He kneeled before Dean. He kneeled in the pool of blood around him and stared out over the throne room.

It was done. It was over.

All Castiel felt was emptiness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Metatron kills Dean at the end of this chapter by ripping out Dean's heart. 
> 
> I want to remind you all this fic is tagged as **TEMPORARY character death.**
> 
> I... feel kind of bad posting this on Christmas. Happy Holidays! Or, have a great Friday if you don't celebrate. Only two more chapters to go. Can you believe it?


	49. (I Don't Believe in) Fate

Attacks on the healer’s camp came more and more frequently. Sam spent his time alternating between fighting the Metatron’s Creatures and patching up the injured. Even with Benny and Andrea’s group assisting with defence, the War took its toll. No one spoke it aloud but everyone thought it: with so many breaks through the front lines, the battle on the beach could not be going well. 

After the latest raid from a pack of werewolves, the morale among the healers reached a new low. They had no idea what was happening beyond the trees. All they knew was that they needed to find beds for the steady stream of wounded. All they knew was that they had none. 

“Ash, we gotta figure out what’s going on out there.” Sam checked the temperature of the sleeping woman lying in the dirt next to the fire. Her injuries were-- comparatively-- not severe. She could not be spared space in a tent or even a bedroll. “We need to know if we should be sounding the retreat.”

“I know.” Ash tied off the bandage around his patient’s leg. He rolled back on his heels and wiped the sweat off his brow, sighing. “I know, but we got so much to do right here."

“Look, everyone’s scared and running on empty. We’re running low on supplies. I can handle myself out there.”

“Obviously I know that!” Ash stood and faced Sam. Sam used his height to his advantage but Ash did not back down. “You get hurt out there and your brother’ll find some way to kill me.” He pointed to the sky. “Even all the way up there. And that’s not considering your wife.”

“Well, I won’t get hurt then.”

“You say that but you’re planning to go out into the middle of the battlefield on your own!”

“Who said he’s goin’ alone?” Benny appeared between Sam and Ash, a shameless smile on his face. When Sam and Ash turned to him with annoyed expressions, he shrugged and said, “If you don’t want people chimin’ in you shouldn’t be havin’ arguments in the middle of camp.”

Sure enough, the curious eyes of those awake in the camp-- healers and injured-- quickly glanced away once Sam and Ash noticed them. Sam took a deep breath and turned back to Ash. As long as the healers kept doing their work at the same time, they could eavesdrop all they wanted.

“Do you have something in mind?” Ash asked Benny.

“Yeah,” Benny said. “I ain’t much help with the healin’ but I do swing a weapon alright. And I know Andrea’s been itchin’ to get outta here. So, if Sam’s headin’ out there then…”

“You’re saying a bunch of monsters-- er, Creatures-- are gonna take Sam out to the middle of a battlefield.” Ash raised an eyebrow at Sam. “How do you feel about that?”

“If it lets us figure out what’s going on,” Sam said. “I’d ride a hellhound out there.”

“Then we should go.” Benny grabbed Sam’s shoulder and pulled him towards the entrance to the beach. “We’re packed and ready.”

“We are?” Sam asked.

“Like I said: you shouldn’t have arguments in the middle of camp if you don’t wanna be heard.”

A small group of Creatures waited at the edge of the forest. A few of them were to remain at camp to protect the healer’s camp. The ones ready to head into battle were the ones who spent the longest in Purgatory. They had spent most of their lives-- or death-- fighting in the washed out forest. They were eager to head back into the fray and leave the smell of human blood and the sound of beating hearts they could not consume behind. 

Bodies covered the beach. Many were human, a lot were Creatures of the Night and, on the rare occasion, a Celestial with burned out wings turned the sands black. Sam picked his way through the beach, checking every corner, every shadow, for threats. The only life he saw were in the Creatures marching beside him.

Sam could hear the battle. He heard shouts and the clash of steel. He could not tell who was winning. He could not tell how many fighters were left. He could tell, however, that the Captain's army was not giving up. 

The small group made good time. The Creature’s enhanced vision allowed them to march past nightfall. Sam did not let his human sensibilities slow him down but he still stumbled in the dark. He did not look at the indistinct shape which tripped him, choosing to believe it was a large piece of driftwood. A hand gripped his arm to keep him from falling, then hooked around his elbow. Andrea’s green eyes shone unnaturally in the darkness when Sam met them. He nodded his thanks and held onto her arm as they continued across the beach. 

The sounds of fighting rang all through the night, becoming louder as Sam’s group advanced. Still, even those that could see in the dark discerned no other life. Day broke and the ocean, close now, sparkled with the blood red colours of the sunrise and flashes of steel on steel. 

By late morning, Sam saw the battlefield. The beach painted a grim picture. Run ragged and struggling to hold their weapons, the Captain’s army faced down a group of Celestials wearing ornate shining armour and holding deadly swords. Few Creatures of the Night remained among the Celestials but the Awakened allies stood steadfast with the humans. Both sides had taken heavy casualties-- blood and burned wings scarred the pristine white sands-- but, while the humans stumbled under the force of their exhaustion, the Celestials were cool, calm, and prepared for the next clash. 

A great battle cry echoed across the beach. The humans and their Awakened allies raised their swords and charged at the Celestials. Standing at the shoreline, the Celestials did not move. The Celestial commander-- a blonde haired woman at the centre of the front line-- raised her hand. She watched the charge, waiting for the army to close the distance. 

The Celestial commander lowered her hand. With a flurry of wings and a mighty battle cry, the Celestials disappeared from the shore. The army slowed, then stopped entirely when they noticed their opponents were gone. As soon as the last soldier halted, the Celestials struck. 

All at once, the Celestials returned to the ground. They circled the army, surrounding them on all sides, and, as one, attacked. 

Captain Singer stared into the Celestial commander's eyes. He did not back down. He did not shrink away. He did not flinch when they locked swords. He put up an impressive fight, enough of one for the commander to raise her eyebrows and lose some ground. Unfortunately, the Captain was only human, and humans tire. 

The Captain’s next parry left his right flank exposed. The Celestial commander darted forward, using her sword hand to pin down the Captain’s weapon and her other to snatch a dagger from her belt. She plunged it into the Captain’s hip, the enchanted blade cutting into the armour like it did not exist. 

That was when Sam reached the battlefield. 

“Bobby!” Sam yelled, ignoring the shouts behind him as he rushed onto the battlefield. 

The army was overrun. Sam did not care. He ran into the battle, readying his weapon as he went. He had to try. He had to get closer. He had to keep moving because he could see the Captain fall into the sand as the Celestial commander stepped over him to take on her next opponent. He had to keep moving because he could see Jo, back to back with Rufus and Pamela, lunge at four Celestial warriors twice her size. He had to keep moving because he saw Garth's sharp claws covered in blood as he tried to defend Lenore. He had to keep moving because he could not lose the chance of a peaceful future for the people of the Realm and his unborn child.

He had to keep moving because he could not lose. 

Pure desperation and adrenaline carried Sam into the fray and pushed him past the front lines. He cut his way through the battlefield, dodging Celestial strikes and following his allies' hand signals. Benny’s group joined the battle, focusing their attack to try and provide a means of escape for the army. Sam paid it no mind. He needed to reach the Captain. 

“Bobby, Bobby.” Sam dropped to his knees beside the Captain. “Hey, hey, hey. I got you.”

“Sam?” The Captain squinted against the glare of the high afternoon sun. Sweat beaded on his brow. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You’re lucky I am,” Sam said, digging into his pouches for medicine. “‘Cause I’ll get you patched up in no time.”

“You--” The Captain moved like he wanted to stand. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened as he tried, again and again, to stand. “Sam, I--” He tried one more time then laid back down in the sand, panting. “I can’t use my legs.”

Drawing upon all his years of training to keep his voice steady and face blank, Sam continued to treat the Captain’s wound. Screams echoed all around them. The wind pushed the ocean waves into the battlefield. The gleam of the Celestial swords descended upon the army.

The army was losing.

“It’s okay, Bobby,” Sam said as chaos reigned around them, “it’s all gonna be okay.”

“You idjit.” Captain Singer groaned. “Don’t bullshit me. I know a lie when I hear one.”

“Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll come true.”

Captain Singer barked out a laugh. Sam took the opportunity to haul the Captain upright. Sam wrapped one of the Captain’s arms around his shoulders. Steadying the Captain with a hand against his back, Sam carried Captain Singer. The Captain’s feet dragged as they slowly progressed across the battlefield, his boots leaving serpentine shapes in the sand as they moved. 

“Leave me, you idjit,” the Captain said. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“Didn’t you hear me before?” Sam asked, altering their course to avoid a line of foes. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

Seeing Sam’s approach, Andrea tapped Benny on the shoulder and pointed. Benny shouted to his fellow Creatures and, in a manner of moments, they created a passage for Sam and the Captain to pass through. Every Celestial who dared challenge them was met with fierce teeth and claws.

“It’s all gonna be okay.” Sam repeated it over and over as he walked across the beach. He had to hope it was true. He had to believe it.

The ground rumbled. At first, Sam thought nothing of it. It was a battle. Strange things happened in battles all the time and Sam was determined to get the Captain to safety.

But it happened again. And again. Over and over until the combatants lost their footing and missed their strikes. All at once, the fighters-- Celestial, Creature, and human-- turned to the source of the disturbance. 

A group of humanoid shapes appeared on the horizon, coming from the forest. They seemed to be the size of the average man. Sam blinked. They seemed to be the size of men but only at their current distance. 

The shapes grew larger as they marched toward the beach. The rumbles became more intense the closer they came. Behind those shapes was an entire fighting force. In front of them, a familiar person led them all into the battle.

Aaron led his people down to the shore. They followed him without hesitation. The Bass family army, alongside the Golems of yore, joined the battle. With their size and strength, the Golems were an equal match to the Celestials. The reinforcements turned the tides of battle. The Celestials were pushed back.

Through it all, Sam led the Captain out of the battlefield with the help of Benny’s Awakened Creatures. He kept moving. He had to.

“It’s all gonna be okay,” Sam whispered.

Everything went white.

⁂

Castiel did not make a sound. He did not cry. He did not shout. He stared forward-- kneeling on the floor covered in the ripped remnants of useless prophecy, kneeling over the body of the one he held dear-- because that was all he could do. 

The battlefield lay below. Castiel did not know if the Metatron’s death ended anything. Castiel did not know if the Mother and Linda had returned to the Realm’s surface safe with Balthazar. Castiel did not know what Sam was doing. 

It should have mattered. It all mattered. Castiel could not seem to care. 

Time was an odd-shaped thing in Heaven. Some would say Castiel kneeled at the base of the Throne of God for years. Some would say he did it for hours, minutes, seconds. All of them would be right. 

The throne room rumbled. The walls shook. The ripped papers danced across the floor. Castiel did not move. He could not see. He could not think. To him, nothing mattered.

Joshua entered the room. He picked his steps with deliberate care, struggling to remain upright on the unstable floor. When he knelt on the floor on the other side of Dean, Castiel could not muster a greeting. 

"I'm sorry, Castiel," Joshua said, the expression on his face and the tone of his voice indicating his sincerity.

Castiel blinked. It meant nothing. It was all he could do.

"You need to leave," Joshua said.

"What?" Castiel did not recognize his own voice. He could not recall it ever sounding that broken.

"Heaven is falling. Can't you see?"

A creak accompanied the words. Castiel watched a crack run across the floor at his knees, watched as it disappeared behind the Throne, then heard a loud, violent pop as the floor shattered a few feet away. For the first time, Castiel looked through the transparent floor and did not see clouds, but the fast approaching ocean. 

He could not seem to care.

"So what?" Castiel muttered.

The lines on Joshua's face deepened. "Castiel, I'm sorry, truly, but this is how the story ends. The Garden told me. It's fate."

"Fate?" Castiel threw his head back and laughed. His red rimmed eyes filled with tears. He let them fall. "So, this is it? After all this, Metatron still wins?" 

Joshua said nothing. He met Castiel's gaze with no hesitation, his lips pressed into a thin line and his face smooth and blank.

No. Castiel could not-- would not-- accept this ending. The Metatron did not deserve to win. Dean deserved to return home. Dean deserved to find peace. Dean deserved to _live_. 

This ending was wrong, all wrong. 

A flash of anger broke through Castiel's emptiness, his numbness, and he shook his head over and over until all his tears had gone away. The corner of Joshua's mouth twitched upward.

Castiel's power buzzed through his veins, filling every part of him until he lit up the room. The power overflowed, spilling out of him like a wildfire out of control, and Castiel laid his hands over the void in Dean's chest.

"I don't believe in fate."

Amplified by every last bit of his power, the words echoed throughout the entirety of Heaven. It shook at the force. Heaven slammed into the ocean.

Everything went white.

⁂

Wet, sticky sand clung to Dean’s hair and armour, settling into the creases at the joints. Salt air stung his nose, heavy with blood and death. Chill air dried the water on his skin but the knees cushioning his back and the arms around his body kept him warm. 

His chest hurt. Why did his chest hurt?

Dean remembered little. The last thing he could recall was walking down the halls of Heaven and being grabbed from behind. 

Dean opened his eyes. Thousands upon thousands of stars glittered in the night sky. One spot, the spot Heaven once occupied, was pitch black. Dean turned his head one way. The ocean waters were still. He turned his head the other way. 

Armour scratched and waterlogged with bits of seaweed clinging to his collar, Castiel hunched over Dean’s body to shelter him from the worst of the elements. His eyes were closed. 

Groaning with the effort and clutching at his chest, Dean sat up. He wrapped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders to keep him upright. Once Castiel’s head was safely tucked against Dean’s shoulder, Dean was able to scan his surroundings. 

Bodies and blood littered the beach, the clear aftermath of a hard fought battle. With the stars acting as the sole source of light, Dean was spared grim details hidden in shadows. Sitting at the shoreline facing the ocean, Dean knew one thing for sure: there was no other life around them.

Castiel did not move nor did he open his eyes. Dean pressed his fingers to the pulse point on Castiel’s neck. Slow, but it was there. Next, Dean pressed a palm against his own chest. His heart beat hard, thumping against his ribs. He could feel it everywhere, his blood rushing hot and fast through his veins. It kind of hurt.

What happened to him?

“Cas,” Dean said, voice rough, “Cas, wake up.” 

No response.

Dean shook Castiel.

No response.

“Hey, c’mon, buddy. Wake up. We gotta--” Dean cut off, the sound of many boots carrying across the silent beach. 

Pain surged when Dean attempted to stand. He let himself drop back into the sand. There were no places to hide on the beach. Dean could not drag Castiel somewhere safe and hidden. In order to protect Castiel from the approaching owners of the boots, Dean tucked Castiel's head under his chin and held him close. 

“Don’t worry, Cas,” Dean whispered. “I got you.”

The boots slowed, too close now for Dean to run-- not that he would without Castiel by his side. Dean did not glance behind him. He did not want to see his approaching doom. He held Castiel and waited. 

“Okay, so Pamela told us they were…” The boots stopped.

Dean knew that voice. He would always know that voice. Dean looked behind him. 

Flanked by two torch wielding guards, Sam stood a few feet away from Dean, his mouth open. When the brothers locked eyes, Sam started running. 

“Dean!” Sam dropped in front of Dean and took his face in both hands. “You’re alive! Oh, I thought I lost you.” After checking Dean over, Sam moved on to Castiel. “Cas, good to see you.” 

No response. 

Sam shot Dean a questioning glance. 

“He won’t wake up,” Dean said. “I-- I don’t know--”

Sam instantly went into work mode. He waved one of the warriors over and instructed her to hold the torch high. Sam checked Castiel for any signs of distress.

“What happened to you guys?” Sam asked while he worked. 

“I--” Dean gasped and clutched at his chest. “I don’t know.”

The motion did not go unnoticed by Sam but he had to prioritize. “Nothing?”

“Nothing. I was up there”-- Dean raised his chin toward the sky-- “then here.”

“Count yourself lucky.”

“What do you mean?”

“A few days ago there was this-- this _flash_ and then Heaven started falling from the sky. We tried to run. Some of us got out. Some of us didn’t. The tidal wave took a lot of our people. We’re still trying to find any survivors we can.” Sam sighed. “There’s a lot of casualties.” 

“Wait.” Dean pinched the bridge his nose. “A few _days_?”

“Yeah. I was starting to think…” Sam licked his lips. He dropped his hands and leaned back from Castiel. “I can’t see anything. He’s just asleep.”

“What about everyone else? What happened?”

“Well…” Sam took a deep breath. His eyes shone in the torchlight. “We won.”


	50. Hero's Journey

The healer’s camp expanded beyond the forest and into the beach. Healers walked up and down the lines of injured, making the most of their dwindling supplies. Rescue parties, led by Aaron and his troops, were sent out every day. Most of the time they returned with heavy hearts and little else. Sometimes, however, they found a survivor and that made the effort worth it. 

In the books, written years later about the final moments of the Long War, the historians would refer to the fall of Heaven as “The Flash.” There were many theories about what it was-- the last dying breath of Heaven, the final surge of power before the Celestials flew away-- but only a few of them came close to the truth. In their defence, none of them knew what happened up in Heaven. Castiel never told them. 

On the bright summer morning Sam tended to his patients on the beach, the people were not worried about the reasons behind the Flash. They were busy trying to treat the effects. When the Flash occurred, many fighters were unable to shield themselves from the radiance. They looked directly into the light and, as consequence, their eyes burned out. Many of Sam’s patients had bands of cloth tied over their eyes. 

Sam knelt beside one such patient. “Hey, Pamela. How are you doing today?”

“Sam? Sam is that you?” Pamela sat up, reaching toward him. Her hands settled on his arms. She gripped his biceps and squeezed. “Oh, that’s definitely you.”

Sitting in the sand beside her, Jo rolled her eyes. “She’s feeling okay.”

“I got that.” Sam tried to shrug her off but she held fast. “Pamela, I’m gonna need my hands to change your bandages.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.” Pamela dropped her arms. She sat still and serene as Sam worked. “Jo, my dear, your aura is vibrating.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Hey.” Pamela found Jo’s hand with no trouble. She held it tight. “I just like to flirt. You know I’m committed.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Jo sighed. “What are we gonna say to Charlie?”

“Oh, you just let me handle Red.” 

“She said to come back in one piece.”

“And I am. Mostly.”

Sam very professionally and very carefully tied the clean bandage behind Pamela’s head, acting as if he had not noticed a thing. “You’re taking all this pretty well.”

“Guess so.” Pamela smiled, her head inclined toward Jo. Jo smiled back. “Weird, huh?” 

Sam patted her on the arm and stood. He nodded to Jo and moved further down the line. His next patient was given a wide berth. Most people wanted to avoid the yelling. Well, most people but one. 

“Oh, c’mon, Bobby,” Rufus said, plopping down beside the Captain on his makeshift cot constructed of driftwood. “You’ll like the village. It’s full of taverns.”

“And you,” came the surly reply.

“Someone’s gotta deal with your cranky ass.” Rufus reached under his cloak and produced a flask. He took a pull then handed it to the Captain. “C’mon.”

The Captain accepted the offering. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“It’s about time the old man retired.”

“Old man?” The Captain drank from the flask. “You’re older than me!”

“That’s what you like to think.”

Rufus’s eyes became huge when he saw Sam walking towards them. He snatched the flask from the Captain’s hand and shoved it behind his back. Sam shook his head and chose to let them think they got away with it. 

“Did you bring legs?” The Captain demanded as soon as Sam was within earshot.

“No,” Sam said, “but I do have an idea.”

“Yeah, what?” Rufus asked.

“A moving chair,” Sam said. “That way, you can get around even without legs.”

“A chair.” The Captain threw his hands up. Rufus pushed them down and shot the Captain a warning glare. Captain Singer took a deep breath and visibility forced himself to calm. “I… _appreciate_ the effort.”

“Wow,” Sam said, grinning, “I guess you really are feeling better.”

Rufus waved as Sam walked away. He heard the men bickering as he left. His next visit was not for a patient, not officially. She had a clean bill of health, only in need of rest, but he wanted to check on her anyway.

Linda Tran refused a bedroll. She sat in the sand, leaning against a boulder, her face tilted back to catch the sun. She stroked Kevin’s hair, who lay asleep in her lap.

“Hey,” Sam said keeping his voice low as to not wake Kevin, “how’s it going?”

“Good,” Linda said. “I really missed the fresh air.”

“I bet. I want to ask: are you planning to head back to your village after this?”

Linda raised her head and looked Sam in the eye. “Why are you asking?”

“Kevin has a lot of talent.” Sam shrugged. “We could use that.”

“We?”

“The castle.”

Linda hummed, touching the blade hidden under her sleeve. “I wonder if there’s any need for fighters in the coming days.”

“I’m sure the people will always need some kind of protection. Help with travel. Rebuilding. Stuff like that.”

“I see.” She rubbed her chin, thoughtful. “Do you think they’d have any use for a single mom?”

“If she had plenty of drive and talent.”

Linda leaned her head back toward the sun. “Maybe we won’t need to head back home so soon.”

Sam bid her goodbye, though he doubted she saw his wave. He had one more stop. This time, he headed for the abandoned cabin. It was damaged during the fighting. The kitchen wall had crumbled, exposing it to the outside. Luckily, the bedroom was untouched. That room was all Sam needed. 

Ash hopped down what was left of the steps. He paused at the bottom, pushing his long hair out of his face, and collected himself.

“What’s up, little dude?” Ash asked. “Checking in on our favourite patients?” 

“He’s that bad, huh?” 

“He’s…” Ash puffed out the air in his lungs. “He’s grumpy.”

Sam chucked. “Thanks for the warning.”

“I’m sure you’ll have more luck. Well, I think I’ll go check in on the Captain. I think he’d yell less.”

“Oh boy. Thanks, Ash. I got it from here.”

“You sure do.” Ash patted Sam on the shoulder before he walked away. "That was my last check-in."

Sam steeled himself, then walked into the cabin. He knocked on the bedroom door before he entered. 

Dean had fresh bandages, so Ash did manage to get him to submit to an examination. Castiel, of course, was the same as he was the last few days: asleep on the bed with no visible cause for his condition. 

“Did you know,” Sam said as he entered the room, “you got Ash to quit now? Guess you’re stuck with me.”

Dean, sitting at the foot of Castiel’s bed, rolled his eyes. “I don’t need medicine.” 

“Uh, yeah you do. I saw that bruise on your chest.”

“It’ll heal,” Dean muttered, becoming silent as his attention was drawn down to the bed. 

“He’ll wake up,” Sam said.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean took Castiel’s hand in his own. “Course he will. We made plans. He promised.”

It was done. It was over. The Long War had ended. Castiel slept on.

⁂

Light, fluffy, airy white clouds floated all around him in the blue sky. Castiel drifted through them. Warm. Content. At rest. 

Castiel rolled onto his back and watched the clouds pass by, flying on his long lost wings. He smiled. This was always how he imagined Paradise-- flying through a safe place, quiet and alone. It was almost perfect. Something about it, however, was not quite right. 

A voice, deep and booming, echoed all around him, _Castiel._

Castiel flapped his wings-- the black lightning shimmering with all the colours of the word-- and hovered in the air upright. The serene picture around him shimmered.

The tips of Castiel's boots touched still waters. Warily, Castiel flattened his feet. The water below him held fast, rippling gently at the movement. Once he was sure he would not sink into the depths, Castiel surveyed his surroundings. 

Stars shone on the horizon. The soft silver light of the full moon reflected in the water. A shadow appeared in the middle of the moon in the shape of a Celestial, wings blotting out the sky. Castiel stood, waiting, watching the figure walk across the water, every step sending ripples toward him. 

“Castiel,” Joshua said, putting his wings away, “well done.”

Joshua glowed. He stood tall, the hunch in his back gone, and both his hands lay at his sides, steady and strong. He smiled, the white of his teeth bright against his dark complexion. Castiel could not look away from the full radiance of the Son of God.

“What?” Castiel asked.

“You did it. Your battle is over. You made it to Paradise.” 

“Paradise.” Castiel squinted. “Something feels wrong.”

Joshua clasped his hands in front of his chest. “Yes. I thought you would say that. You never could rest, could you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

A kind golden glow appeared in Joshua’s eyes. “I mean that you don’t need to worry anymore. I mean that I will guide the Celestials in their new way of life, Balthazar included. I mean that you can rest.”

The golden glow enveloped Joshua’s body until he was nothing more than a fuzzy outline of a humanoid shape. The shape reached out its hands and touched Castiel’s chest.

 _Castiel,_ said the same voice Castiel heard in the clouds, _I absolve you of your sins. This, my child, is your reward._

Everything went white. 

⁂

Castiel awoke, blinking at the ceiling of the abandoned cabin’s bedroom. A beam of bright sunlight found its way through the gap in the wooden ceiling slats to shine right into Castiel’s eyes. Castiel wiped at his face, as if that would make it go away. 

His skin felt damp. Sweat. Castiel did not sweat. 

His head ached and the beam of light was not helping. Castiel grumbled, fighting the urge to sink back into the bed and squish the pillow against his eyes, and sat up. 

A hollow sensation gnawed at his stomach. He flattened his palm against his abdomen and wondered what that meant. 

Throwing the blanket aside, he swung his feet around and put them on the floor. The shock of cold against his naked skin made him hiss. He wanted to stand-- wanted to find something other to wear other than the oversized trousers around his waist-- but he felt dizzy and achy and tired.

Dean found Castiel like that, sitting on the edge of the bed with a confused, soft, sleepy look on his face, and dropped the clean blanket he was carrying. 

“Cas!” Dean rushed to Castiel’s side. “You’re awake!”

Castiel mumbled out a few sounds before he was able to form words around his sleep coated tongue. “Did we win?”

Dean’s smile was enough of an answer but he said, “Yeah. We did it.”

Castiel nodded. The strange hollow sensation in his stomach surged. Castiel held onto his side and hunched over.

“Hey.” Dean kneeled in front of Castiel and bit his lip. “Is everything okay? Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so. I--” Castiel’s stomach growled, rumbling under his hand. He gasped. “What was that?”

“You--” Dean snorted. He saw the real concern on Castiel’s face and tried to hold back his laughter. It did not work. “You’re hungry.”

“Hungry? I don’t get hungry. I--” Castiel snapped his mouth shut. He sat up straight and relished the pop of his spine. What an odd sensation. “This is my reward.”

“Reward? What are you talking about?”

Castiel stood. He walked past Dean to the opposite end of the room, his bare feet sliding across the rough floorboards. It tickled. Castiel did not know he was ticklish. He laughed.

“Uh, Cas,” Dean said from behind him, still standing near the bed. “You okay? You’re kinda freaking me out here.”

“Forgive me. I--” Castiel turned around. “I think I’m mortal.”

“Mortal?” Dean stepped toward Castiel, a tentative smile on his face. “Does that mean…?”

“It means,” Castiel said, taking slow steps back to Dean, “that I sweat and I’m ticklish and I get hungry and…”

Castiel stopped when he reached Dean, his blue eye blazing not with power, but with joy.

“And?” Dean prompted.

“It means I can grow old with you. It means that I can finally say this without a knot in my chest.” Castiel took Dean's face between his hands and pressed their foreheads together. “I love you.”

They kissed. They kissed and kissed until they were both smiling too wide to do much more than brush their lips together. 

Castiel’s stomach growled. Dean laughed, feeling the heat in Castiel’s cheeks when he kissed them.

“Okay, okay. More of that later. Food first. Welcome to mortality, Cas.” Dean broke free from Castiel and headed toward the door, yelling as he went. “Hey! Sammy! We need some snacks in here!”

Alone in the bedroom, Castiel pressed his hands against his chest. Underneath, his mortal heart beat, strong and sure. 

It was done. It was over. Castiel was absolved. Castiel was loved.

⁂

Rosemary Winchester-Moore was born less than a month after Sam’s return to the Capital. Sam held Jessica’s hand through her labour, calm and rational the whole time. The first time he held his daughter, however, he cried. 

Two years later, Deanna Winchester-Moore came along. Sam did the exact same thing.

Aaron Bass, after months of rescue missions and saving many lives, returned to his estate to put the Golems to rest. He became King Adam’s most outspoken ally. Many reforms within the Realm came to pass through his support and advice. After his heroics in the Long War, the people followed him without hesitation. The Golems rested, ready to rise again in their hour of need. It would be a very, very long time until that came to pass. 

Pamela Barnes spent a year in the Capital, settling her affairs and passing her knowledge to the next generation of soldiers. She never returned to the Barnes estate. She never picked up another sword. Instead, she spent her days in Charlie's shop, listening to her work.

Joanna Beth Harvelle spent that year guiding lost civilians back home and taking down the last few pockets of Creatures. After her final job ended, she officially retired from being a mercenary and returned to Pamela and Charlie. With her lovers in tow, she returned home to Lawrence. Ellen Harvelle welcomed all three with open arms. 

The Trans journeyed to the Capital after the War and immediately went to work. Linda and Kevin led the rebuilding effort and settled into their new home. Kevin became a prominent scholar. He wrote about the history of the Realm, drawing upon his experiences with the Metatron and the Long War. Linda Tran joined the king’s army, which had shifted its focus to peacekeeping and protection, and worked her way up the ranks almost as quickly as the previous record holder, Dean. Five years later, once Rufus finally convinced Robert Singer to officially retire, people called her Captain Tran. She liked that.

Rufus Turner, along with the no-longer Captain Singer, disappeared from the pages of history once they left the Capital. It is believed that they spent their last years in the village of Rufus’s birth in peace. It did not, however, stop them from arguing. It suited them both just fine. Neither one could live without the other. Besides, Bobby liked Rufus’s daughter’s cooking. 

No one knew what happened to the Mother. Many historians, writing about the Long War hundreds of years later, doubted she existed at all. All the historians agreed, however, that the Creatures of the Night disappeared five years after the War without a sound. If they ever thought to look, the historians would have found a village deep in the woods. There, they would have found people with unnaturally glowing eyes with family names such as Fitzgerald and Lafitte. They were just people and families, living out their days free of bloodlust. That was their thanks, their gift. 

Thousands of years after the Long War, when people used automated carriages and artificial lights, a legend took root in the culture. They believed in an afterlife, in a place hidden in the sky that all good people went to when they died. They called the place Heaven. Perhaps it did exist. Perhaps, as the people said, it was created by an entity known as God. Perhaps the agents of God, the beings the people called angels, were truly the Celestials of yore. 

Perhaps.

But that was far into the future, far beyond the lives of the Heroes of the Long War. 

Dean and Castiel never returned to the Capital. After sending Sam ahead with his official letter of resignation, Dean decided to take the long way home. He and Castiel travelled the Realm, seeing the beauty of its new age of peace.

Those adventures, however, were stories for another time.

Eventually, Dean and Castiel returned to Lawrence. Celebrations brought on by their arrival lasted weeks. Once everyone slept off their hangovers, the villagers banded together to help Dean and Castiel build their house, their home, complete with a guest room for Sam and his growing family. Soon, they had a modest farm. They planted some wheat. They even had a few animals. After Dean became enamoured with a black Impala horse, they ended up building a stable. 

Dean named her Baby. 

Sam and Jessica visited frequently, bringing their daughters to see their uncles. Rosemary loved playing, eager to wave around her wooden sword and act out grand stories about heroes. Dean was all too happy to indulge her whims. With her mother’s hair and her father’s eyes, Dean could not help but be completely wrapped around Rosemary’s little finger. 

Much like her namesake, Deanna became instantly fond of Castiel. She sat in his lap, wide eyed in wonder, listening to his tales of adventure. He did not tell her everything, of course, but, as she grew older, he did not shy away from telling her the truth. 

Years later, when her uncles were old and grey, Deanna picked up a pen and started to write. She wrote a book, one based on the tales Castiel told her. 

She called it _The Angel_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it, my friends! We reached the end.  
> Because I like to record these things for posterity:  
> I created the document for this fic on July 30th, 2019. I completed the first draft on September 5th, 2020 and started posting on September 7th. And now, today on December 30th, 2020, it is complete. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your kudos and comments. I love and appreciate every single one!  
> I am, of course, working on more fic. This fandom has its hooks in me. Probably for life.  
> [Feel free to say hi to me on Tumblr!](https://thisisapaige.tumblr.com/) I post little ficlets and even take prompts!  
> Bye-bye, for now. I hope to see you next time! <3


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